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ROSEMARY. 


n 


ROSEMARY; 


A   TALE  OF  THE  FIRE  OF  LONDON. 


LADY   GEORGIANA  FULLERTON. 


NEW   YORK: 
P.  O'SHEA,  PUBLISHER, 

37  BARCLAY  STREET  AND  42  PARK  PLACE. 
1874. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

P.  O'SHEA, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


STEREOTYPED   AND    PRINTED 

AT  THE   NEW   YORK   CATHOLIC    PROTECTORY, 

WEST   CHESTER,    N.  Y. 


H70g 


LTBP.A7?Y 

UNIVERPT-ry  nv  r  '  t  tttorniA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


CONTENTS. 


Chap.  i.  Wishing  Something   to  happen  —  Some- 
thing happens      9 

II.  Visitors 22 

III.  Going  beyond  Seas        .         .         .         .29 

IV.  A  Night  Watch 38 

V.  It  never  rains  but  it  pours        .         .         -43 

VI.  An  eventful  Day  ....         54 

VII.  Joan's  Resolution 75 

VIII.  Returned 81 

IX.  A  Slip  between  the  Cup  and  the  Lip        .     96 
X.  The  Boarding-school  at  Richmond       .       11 1 

XI.  Lady  Davenant 131 

XII.  Davenant  House  ....       142 

XIII.  Joan  Porter's  Room        .         .        .         .155 

XIV.  The  Mother's  Appeal           .         .         .168 
XV.  Rosemary 177 


ROSEMARY. 

A  TALE  OF   THE   FIRE   OF   LONDON. 


CHAPTER  L 

WISHING  SOMETHING  TO  HAPPEN — SOMETHING 
HAPPENS. 

In  a  small  house  in  London,  close  to  the  old 
Westminster  Bridge,  there  lived,  rather  more 
than  two  hundred  years  ago,  a  good  old  lady, 
commonly  called  the  Widow  Coggle.  She  and 
her  maid,  Joan  Porter,  had  inhabited  this  little 
house  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  ;  that  is,  since 
the  death  of  Mr.  Coggle  ;  and  though  they  had 
disputed  daily  during  all  that  time  on  every 
possible  subject  within  their  narrow  reach,  the)'' 
had  never  quarrelled,  and  neither  of  them  would 
probably  have  been  able  to  exist  comfortably 
without  the  other. 


lo  Rosemary. 

On  the  day  on  which  this  story  begins,  Mrs. 
Coggle  was  sitting  at  her  work-table  with  a  dis- 
consolately wistful  expression  of  countenance, 
which  betokened  an  unsatisfied  state  of  mind 
and  a  desire  to  complain  of  something  or  of 
somebody.  Which  of  these  two  alternatives 
gives  the  greatest  relief  to  persons  laboring 
under  that  sort  of  craving,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  decide;  there  is.much  to  be  said  on  both 
sides.  In  complaining  of  things,  troublesome 
scruples  do  not  often  arise.  People  say,  "  This 
odious  weather!"  or  "This  horrid  pen!"  or 
"  This  di^eadful  table  !  "  or  "  Those  abominable 
tongs  !  "  without  any  remorse  ;  whereas  if  they 
exclaim,  "  That  odious  Mrs.  John  !  "  or  "  That 
horrid  Mr.  James!"  or  "That  dreadful  Miss 
Thomas  !  "  or  "  That  abominable  Sarah  !'"  they 
are  apt,  if  ever  so  little  accustomed  to  examine 
their  consciences,  to  feel  a  little  uncomfortable 
shortly  afterwards.  They  are  obliged  to 
modify  those  adjectives,  and  to  describe  their 
acquaintances  as  only  tiresome  and  disagree- 
able, and  enough  to  provoke  a  saint.  Such 
restraint   no  doubt   interferes  with   the   relief 


Rosemary,  1 1 

afforded  by  the  thorough-going  expressions 
fearlessly  applied  to  the  table  or  to  the  tongs. 
But  then,  on  the  other. hand,  the  passiveness 
of  those  latter  objects — the  unimpressionable 
way  in  which  they  remain  unconscious  of  the 
abuse  they  receive — reacts  unpleasantly  on  the 
excited  state  of  feelings  which  originates  it, 
and  necessarily  pre^'ents  the  continuance  of 
the  outbursts  which,  when  addressed  to  a 
human  being,  can  be  indefinitely  prolonged 
with  more  or  less  present  satisfaction,  though 
at  the  risk  of  subsequent  uneasiness. 

Mrs.  Goggle,  the  lady  who  lived  in  London 
two  centuries  ago,  had  probably  never  deeply 
considered  that  question,  and  acted  impulsively 
on  the  subject.  As  she  pulled  off  her  spec- 
tacles and  exclaimed,  "  They  grows  dimmer 
and  dimmer  every  day !  "  or  when  her  needle 
dropped  out  of  her  fingers  on  the  floor,  de- 
clared needles  in  general  to  be  "  the  most 
plaguing,  sticking-in-all-directions,  and  getting- 
out-of-the-way  things  in  the  world,"  there  was 
probably  in  her  mind  a  sort  of  idea  that  if  Joan 
Porter  would  but  come  home  her  internal  con- 


1 2  Rosemary, 

dition  would  improve.  She  should  scold  Joan, 
or  Joan  would  take  her  to  task ;  things  would 
not  remain  just  as  they  were.  The  fact  was 
that  the  state  of  the  weather  was  at  the  bottom 
of  Mrs.  Goggle's  state  of  mind.  She  had  set 
her  heart  on  going  to  sup  that  day  with  Mrs. 
Biddle,  Mr.  Yates's  housekeeper.  Her  hus- 
band had  been  a  draper,  and  supplied  wealthy 
houses  in  his  day,  and  she  had  in  consequence 
a  sort  of  acquaintanceship  with  many  families 
amongst  the  London  gentry,  especially  amongst 
those  that  had  not  at  all,  or  only  recently, 
conformed  to  the  times.  She  was  herself  a 
Catholic,  but  not  a  confessor  or  a  candidate 
for  martyrdom  ;  and  it  had  been  for  the  many 
years  they  had  lived  together  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal subjects  of  dispute  between  her  and  Joan 
Porter  what  degree  of  conformity  to  the  times 
was  allowable  under  the  circumstances.  Mr. 
George  Yates's  deceased  parents  had  been  some 
of  the  best  customers  of  the  late  Mr.  Goggle, 
and  the  young  couple,  who  had  now  succeeded 
to  their  fortune,  continued  to  show  kindness  to 
his  widow.     As  to  Joan  Porter,  she  was  a  well- 


Rosemary.  1 3 

known  character  in  those  days ;  had  helped 
many  a  Catholic  family  out  of  a  difficulty ; 
saved  many  a  priest  from  arrest ;  and,  under 
an  eccentric  simplicity  of  mind  and  manner, 
concealed  much  shrewdness. 

Three  weeks  before  the  day  on  which  INIrs 
Coggle  wanted  it  to  be  fine,  and  it  would  rain, 
Mrs.Yates  had  been  confined  of  a  little  girl,  and 
this  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  draper's 
widow  was  anxious  to  keep  her  engagement 
with  Mrs.  Biddle.  She  had  seen  Mrs.  Yates 
herself  in  her  cradle  when  she  was  only  a  few 
days  old,  and  she  should  not  like  it  to  be  said 
she  had  not  seen  little  Missy  before  other  folk 
had  had  a  sight  of  her.  But  if  it  rained — at  that 
moment  the  door  opened,  and  Joan  Porter 
entered  the  room  in  a  nondescript  costume, 
the  most  remarkable  feature  of  which  was  a  red- 
and-yellow  handkerchief  tied  round  something 
that  looked  very  like  a  white  nightcap,  and 
holding  in  her  hands  an  umbrella  such  as  Sisters 
of  St.  Vincent  of  Paul  use  nowadays  —  gray, 
heavy,  and  solid-looking. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  people  say  it  never  rains  but  it 


14  Rosemary. 

pours,  which  I  could  never  see  myself  to  be 
true ;  but  if  it  never  poured  before,  I  do 
warrant  you  it  does  so  at  this  here  blessed 
minute." 

"  It  always  does  rain,  Joan,  when  I've  set  my 
heart  on  something." 

"Then,  ma'am," Joan  replied,  as  she  spread 
the  umbrella  to  dry,  which  it  began  to  do  by 
making  a  circle  of  little  ponds  on  the  floor — 
"  then,  ma'am,  if  that  be  the  reason  that  it  rains, 
why  does  you  go  on  setting  your  heart  on 
things,  if  so  be  you  want  it  to  be  fine  ?  " 

"  I  really  think,  Joan,  if  you  was  to  lend  me 
your  umbrella — " 

'*  Laws,  ma'am,  and  who's  to  carr)^  it  over 
your  head  ?  You  have  no  more  strength  to  do 
it  yourself  than  a  new-born  babe." 

"  It's  just  a  new-born  babe  I  want  for  to  go 
and  see — Mrs.  Yates's,  as  was  born  three  weeks 
ago." 

Joan  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  unutterable 
contempt. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  thought  you  was  older  and 
wiser  than  that ;  to  go  for  to  get  wet,  and  catch 


Rosemary.  1 5 

the  rheumatics  and  the  Lord  knows  what  be- 
sides, just  for  to  look  at  a  baby  !  Babies  be  as 
plentiful  as  blackberries.  I'm  sure  /would  not 
go  out  of  my  way  to  see  twenty  of  them,  if  you 
should  pay  me  for  it." 

"  O,  I  dare  say  not,"  Mrs.  Goggle  answered 
sarcastically.  "  You'd  think  more  of  Mrs.  Bid- 
die's  cakes  and  her  cowslip  wine  than  of  the 
little  stranger.  Mrs.  Yates  always  sends  me 
something  nice  from  her  own  table  when  I  sups 
at  her  house,  and  if  I  meet  her  on  the  stairs  she 
speaks  as  civil  as  possible." 

"  O,  as  to  that,  ma'am,  I  don't  go  for  to  say 
anything  against  Mrs.  Yates,  or  cakes,  or  civil- 
ity, or  little  strangers.  It's  going  out  for  to  see 
them  when  it's  a  wet  dripping  night,  enough  to 
soak  the  rheumatism  into  your  bones,  that  I  calls 
fudge." 

Mrs.  Goggle  sighed  deeply,  and  resumed  her 
work  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  said,  in  a  senten- 
tious manner,  "  What  makes  me  so  partial  to 
new-born  babes,  Joan,  is  that  they  be  so  inno- 
cent." 

"They  be  not  so   innocent   always   as  thev 


1 6  Rosemary. 

looks,"  Joan  retorted,  "  They  go  into  dreadful 
passions  if  you  contradicts  them." 

"  To  hear  you  talk  folks  would  think  you  had 
never  been  a  baby  yourself." 

"Well,  I  may  have  been,  or  I  mayn't;  any- 
w^ays,  I  don't  recollect  anything  about  it.  Do 
you,  ma'am,  remember  being  a  baby?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  Mrs.  Coggle  answered ; 
then,  correcting  herself,  added,  "  that  is,  when  I 
look  at  that  picture  of  myself,  with  a  rose  in  my 
hand,  a  sitting  on  my  mother's  knees." 

"  O,  ay,  that  pink-cheeked  wench  over  the 
chimney.  I  sometimes  sits  and  wonders  to  think 
that  was  you,  ma'am.  She's  got  such  a  pretty 
face,  that  little  minx."  ' 

Mrs.  Coggle  felt  rather  nettled  at  the  infer- 
ence contained  in  this  last  speech  of  Joan's. 
"  Grown  people,  I  suppose,  may  be  handsome, 
though  not  pink-cheeked  like  babies  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  they  couldn't.  '  Handsome  is 
as  handsome  does,'  and  you  does  very  hand- 
some things,  ma'am.  I'm  sure  that  patchwork 
quilt  on  the  bed  up-stairs  is  as  handsome  a  one 
as  can  be  seen.     Mrs.  Dimple  says  so." 


Rosemary.  1 7 

The  conversation  was  now  arriving  at  that 
point  where  Mrs.  Goggle  always  found  a  diffi- 
culty in  arguing  with  Joan,  and  when  it  touched 
upon  a  personal  matter  was  apt  to  become  irri- 
table. 

"Well  now,  Joan,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  should 
like  to  know,  once  for  all,  be  you  a  fool  or  be 
you  not?" 

"  That's  just  as  you  like  to  take  me,  ma'am  ; 
you  ought  to  know  best,  I  have  lived  with  you 
so  long." 

"  I  cannot  go  for  to  make  up  my  mind,"  Mrs. 
Goggle  said,  in  the  same  tone  of  cutting  sar- 
casm. 

"  Nor  I,  ma'am,"  Joan  rejoined,  "  for  so  long 
as  I  have  knowed  myself.  You  see,  wise  people 
do  be  sometimes  so  like  fools,  and  fools  so 
like  wise  people,  'tis  hard  to  tell." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  wise  people  ?  " 

Joan's  eyes  twinkled  with  a  funny  expression, 
as  she  replied, 

"  Laws,  ma'am  !  does  not  I  know  you  ?  " 

**  Then  do  you  mean  to  say  I  am  like  a 
fool?" 


1 8  Rosemary. 

"  O  dear,  dear,  I  never  thought  of  that, 
I'm  sure ;  but  'ceptions  makes  the  rule,  you 
know." 

"  Now,  Joan,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"  That  you're  the  'ception,  ma'am,  and  I'm 
the  rule." 

"  Well,  you  had  better  hold  your  tongue, 
Joan,  if  you  can't  talk  more  to  the  purpose." 

Mrs.  Goggle  often  ended  in  that  manner  her 
conversations  with  Joan,  who  was  more  willing 
in  the  long  run  to  remain  silent  than  her  mis- 
tress. 

The  day  was  waning,  and  the  dull  heavy  twi- 
light gradually  disappearing.  Here  and  there, 
amongst  the  thick  murky  clouds  which  were 
rapidly  driven  over  the  face  of  the  sky,  a  star 
began  to  glimmer,  and  lights  to  be  seen  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  and  the  barges  with  which 
they  were  lined.  It  was  still  raining,  but  the 
wind  was  beginning  to  rise,  and  there  seemed  a 
prospect  of  the  night  clearing.  No  sound  was 
heard  in  the  little  parlor,  which  was  getting 
very  dark,  save  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  an4 
now  and  then  a  yawn. 


Rosemary.  1 9 

At  last  Mrs.  Goggle,  wearied  of  the  inac- 
tivity of  her  hands  and  of  her  tongue,  said, 

"  I  am  that  bored  that  I  should  like  some- 
thing to  happen." 

"  To  you  or  to  me,  ma'am  ? "     Joan  inquired. 

"Not  to  any  one  in  particular,  you  foolish 
creature." 

"  What,  to  every  ore  at  once,  ma'am?  That 
would  be  worse,  I  take  it,  for  then  there  would 
be  nobody  to  help  nobody." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  hold  )'our  tongue, 
Joan?"  the  widow  said,  in  an  aggrieved  tone 
of  voice. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  Joan  answered,  "  but  that  was 
before  you  wanted  something  to  happen.  I 
suppose,"  she  added,  "  that  it's  time  now  to  shut 
the  shutters  and  light  the  candle.  It  can't  be 
noways  darker  than  it  is  now."  As  she  said 
this,  Joan  went  to  the  window.  "  O  my  good 
God  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"What,  Joan,  what?"  cried  Mrs.  Goggle, 
stumbling  over  the  footstool  on  her  way  to  the 
window. 

"  O  good  Lord  !  if  there's  not  something  in- 


20  Rosemary. 

deed  happening  now  on  t'other  side  of  the  river, 
Jesu,  Mary,  what  a  red  hght !  O  laws,  what  a 
blaze  !  O,  what  a  frightful  fire !  Mercy  on  us  !  " 
Joan  crossed  herself,  and  then  stood  silently 
gazing  at  the  awful  spectacle,  her  lips  moving 
as  if  in  prayer. 

Not  so  Mrs.  Goggle,  who,  when  she  caught 
sight  of  the  fire,  remained  one  instant  as  if 
petrified,  and  then  began  to  scream  as  if  she 
was  herself  surrounded  by  the  flames. 

"  O  Joan,  Joan,  what  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Do !  Why,  do  nothing,  ma'am  ;  there's 
the  river  between  us  and  the  fire  anyways." 

"  O,  it  be  so  dreadful !  Get  me  some  brandy, 
I  shall  faint."  And  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  Mrs.  Goggle  let  herself  gently  fall  on  the 
floor ;  but  only  for  a  moment.  Starting  up 
again,  and  clinging  to  Joan,  she  cried,  "  Let  us 
run  and  pack  up  our  clothes.  Where  are  the 
keys?    We  shall  be  burnt  in  our  beds." 

"  No,  ma'am,  we  won't  get  into  our  beds,  and 
then  we  can't  be  burnt  in  them.  But,  bless 
your  soul — what's  the  use  of  pulling  your  cap 
off?     Your  wig  is  coming  off  too." 


Rosemary.  2 1 

This  suggestion  turned  the  current  of  the 
widow's  thoughts  for  a  moment,  while  she  was 
restoring  the  endangered  wig  to  its  place. 
Joan,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  river,  which 
the  conflagration  was  now  illuminating  with  a 
terrible  glare,  clasped  her  hands  together,  and 
from  her  quivering  lips  words  such  as  these 
broke  from  time  to  time : 

"  They  are  getting  into  boats  them  as  have 
jumped  out  of  the  windows.  O,  how  they 
scream  !  I'll  tell  you  what,  ma'am,  it  will  be 
next  door  to  a  miracle  if  all  London  ain't  burnt 
to-morrow !  " 


■  CHAPTER  II. 

VISITORS. 

Joan's  previsions  proved  in  a  measure  correct. 
Neither  a  miracle  nor  anything  next  door  to  it 
took  place.  The  fire  which  was  to  devour  a 
great  portion  ot  old  London,  and  reduce  to 
ashes  many  of  its  great  edifices  as  well  as  thou- 
sands of  its  close-built  wooden  houses,  contin- 
ued to  rage  with  unabating  violence. 

Great  was  the  ruin  wrought  and  the  desolation 
caused  by  that  fearful  conflagration.  Many  a 
precious  life  was  lost,  many  a  happy  home  sud- 
denly annihilated.  Who  can  reckon  the  number 
of  vanished  joys,  of  blighted  hopes,  and  broken 
hearts  which  such  a  catastrophe  leaves  behind 
it?  Public  events  of  such  magnitude,  whilst 
they  strike  the  world  with  awe,  influence  many 
an  obscure  destiny  on  which  it  does  not  bestow 
a  thought. 

The  fire  of  London  had  a  great  deal  to  do 


Rosemary.  23 

with  the  fate  of  the  little  Missy  whom  Mrs. 
Coggle  had  so  much  wished  to  look  at  in  her 
cradle.  But  as  she  watched  the  progress  of  the 
flames  it  did  not  even  occur  to  her  what  an  es- 
cape she  had  had  that  evening,  and  how  for- 
tunate it  had  been  that  the  rain  had  kept  her  at 
home  on  the  safe  side  of  the  river.  Both  she  and 
Joan  stood  riveted  to  the  same  spot,  shivering 
and  trembling,  especially  at  the  rushing  sound 
of  feet  and  the  screams  in  the  narrow  street  at 
the  backside  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Coggle  re- 
peated once  or  twice  her  attempt  at  fainting; 
but  it  did  not  succeed.  Excitement  and  curi- 
osity impeded  the  collapse.  Joan  went  on  say- 
ing her  prayers,  and  when  a  crash  louder  than 
usual  indicated  that  some  building  was  falling, 
she  thought  of  the  souls  that  might  be  at  that 
moment  passing  into  eternity,  and  devoutly 
crossing  herself  she  murmured,  "  God  ha'  mercy 
on  them." 

All  at  once  a  loud  knocking  was  heard  at  the 
door. 

"  Bless   my   soul,"    Mrs.   Coggle   exclaimed, 
"  who,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  can  that  be  at 


24  Rosemary. 

this  time  of  the  night  ?  I'm  that  frightened  1 
cannot  move.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Joan,  look 
who  they  be  before  you  open  the  door." 

As  there  was  no  way  of  peeping  except 
through  the  key-hole,  and  it  was  too  dark  to  see 
anything,  Joan  could  not  well  comply  with  this 
command,  but  she  said,  with  an  expressive 
shrug, 

"  I  know  them  by  their  voices.  It's  those 
women,  Mrs.  Peterkin  and  Mrs.  Crump.  They 
always  run  in  couples,  and  whatever  happens 
they  turns  up." 

So  saying,  she  opened  the  door,  and  the  two 
individuals  she  had  named  rushed  in. 

"■  O  neighbor  !  neighbor !  "  Mrs.  Peterkin  ex- 
claimed. 

"  O  Mistress  Goggle,  Mistress  Goggle,"  Mrs. 
Grump  cried. 

And  then  Mrs.  Peterkin  broke  forth  in  a 
pathetic  tone,  "  What  are  you  made  of,  ma'am, 
that  you  can  be  looking  quietly  out  of  window, 
and  London  burning  all  the  time?" 

"That's  just  what  I've  been  saying  to  Joan," 
Mrs.  Goggle  answered,  in  an  aggrieved  voice ; 


Rosemary.  25 

**  I  wanted  to  go  out,  didn't  I,  Joan,  and  you 
prevented  me?  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a 
thing-  as  staying  at  home  when  London  was  on 
fire  !     Give  me  my  cloak,  Joan." 

"No,  ma'am,  3-ou  sha'nt  stir  out;  leastways, 
not  till  the  Thames  catches  fire,  and  those  good 
ladies,  I'm  thinking,  won't  be  those  to  set  it 
burning.  Now,  do  you  sit  down,  mistress,  like 
a  sensible  Christian  woman,  and  let  other  folks 
make  fools  of  themselves,  if  so  be  it  pleases 
them.  Much  good  it  will  do  to  the  poor  crea- 
tures yonder  if  you  gets  yourself  trodden  to 
death  by  the   crowd  !  " 

Mrs.  Peterkin  thought  this  remark  a  very 
heartless  one,  and  said  some  people  had  no  feel- 
ings ;  upon  which  Joan  observed  that  she  had  a 
feeling  as  how  she  would  like  to  see  Mrs.  Peter- 
kin  mind  her  own  business  and  leave  her  mis- 
tress alone.  A  sharp  altercation  might  have 
followed,  not  the  first  between  those  two  com- 
batants, if  at  that  moment  the  burning  rafters 
of  a  large  house  on  the  opposite  bank  had  not 
given  way  with  a  fearful  glare,  and  made  the 

whole  scene  clearly  visible. 
2 


26  Rosemary. 

"  'Tis   like   the    Day   of  Judgment !  "     Mrs 
Crump  exclaimed,  and  began  to  scream. 

"  In  that  ere  case  you'd  better  say  your 
prayers,  and  not  'wilder  other  folks  with  shriek- 
ing," Joan  observed. 

This  remark  checked  for  a  moment  the  out- 
burst of  Mrs.  Crump's  feeling,  and  during  the 
pause  that  ensued  Mrs.  Peterkin  uttered  the 
following  words  in  an  oracular  tone  of  voice. 

"  I'll  warrant  vou,  ladies_,  that  it's  the  Papists 
have  done  it.  I  always  said  they  would  burn 
us  in  our  beds." 

This  mention  of  beds  touched  Mrs.  Coggle  to 
the  quick. 

"  O  dear  !  O  dear  !  "  she  cried,  wringing  her 
hands.  "Joan  says  we  mustn't  go  to  bed  no 
more.     To  think  we  should  come  to  that!  " 

"  Never  you  mind,  mistress.  You'll  go  to 
bed  till  you  are  tired  of  it,  if  you  will  only  sit 
still  a  bit." 

Having  administered  these  words  of  consoli- 
tion  to  her  mistress,  Joan  turned  with  a  severe 
aspect  toward  Mrs.  Peterkin. 

"  Tf  you  please,  ma'am,  will  you  keep  a  civil 


Rosemary.  2  7 

tongue  in  your  head  when  3'ou  speak  of  Papists, 
as  you  calls  them,  and  not  go  for  to  go  and  put 
about  such  big  lies  about  them  ?  " 

"  O  my  goodness,  Mrs.  Goggle !  I  say,  Mrs. 
Crump,  did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that?" 

Mrs.  Crump  never  had,  nor  Mrs.  Coggle 
either.  The  former  had,  however,  no  inclination 
at  that  moment  to  take  vip  the  cudgels  on  either 
side,  and  she  exclaimed, 

"  But  I  say,  neighbor,  I'm  not  going  to  stop 
here  doing  nothing.  This  is  a  sight  folks  may'nt 
live  to  see  twice  in  their  lives.  Come,  let  us 
run — run." 

Joan  closed  the  door  on  the  departing  visitors, 
and  when,  on  returning  to  the  window,  she 
caught  sight  of  them  a  moment  afterwards  fly- 
ing across  the  bridge,  she  relieved  herself  by 
ejaculating : 

"  The  two  silly  creatures !  There  they  go, 
tearing  away  amongst  the  crowd  like  demented 
persons.  I  should  like  to  clap  them  both  into 
Bedlam." 

Then  turning  to  her  mistress,  she  said, 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I    hopes   you'll   never   again 


28  Rosemary. 

wish    something   to    happen !    For   my  part,  I 
think  it's  next  door  to  a  sin." 

Quite  crestfallen,  Mrs.  Coggle  did  not  attempt 
to  justify  her  unlucky  desire  ;  but  sinking  down 
in  her  easy  chair,  declared  she  should  never  get 
over  it.  As  to  going  to  bed,  she  should  never 
think  of  doing  so ;  and  as  it  happened,  it  was 
better  she  should  not  have  made  the  attempt 
that  night,  for  another  intrusion,  a  ver}'  different 
one  from  the  last,  would  have  obliged  her  to 
get  up  again. 


CHAPTER  III. 

GOING  BEYOND    SEAS. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  some  one  knocked 
very  gently  at  the  door,  and  when  Joan  had 
cautiously  opened  it,  a  low  but  eager  voice 
said : 

"  Is  this  Mrs.  Goggle's  house  ?  " 

**  Yes ;  but  who  may  you  be  ?  "  Joan  inquired. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Yates,  Joan  ;   let  me  in." 

"  Mrs.  Yates,  of  all  the  fishes  in  the  sea !  And 
the  baby,  too,  I  do  declare.  Come  in,  ma'am, 
come  in  ;  "  and  taking  the  infant  from  its  mother's 
arms,  Joan  led  the  way  to  the  parlor. 

"Well,  mistress,  if  the  Missy  as  you  wanted 
to  see  is  not  come  her  own  self  to  see  you. 
Here's  Mrs.  Yates." 

"  Good  gracious,  ma'am,  you  are  very  wel- 
come. I'm  sure  it's  a  mercy  that  you  and  your 
babe  are  not  burnt  alive.  But  where  is  Mr. 
Yates  ?  " 


30  Rosemary. 

"  Take  the  child  a  moment,  mistress,"  Joan 
said,  "  whilst  I  looks  after  this  poor  lady  ;  she  is 
like  to  faint,  I  think.  Sit  down,  ma'am.  Take 
that  heavy  cloak  off,  and  rest  your  head  against 
the  back  of  the  chair,  whilst  I  fetches  you  a 
drop  of  cowslip  wine." 

The  young  woman  thus  addressed  was  not 
more  than  twenty-one  or  two  years  of  age,  very 
thin  and  delicate,  but  singularly  lovely.  Her 
large  blue  eyes  were  fringed  with  dark  eye- 
lashes, and  her  hair  and  eyebrows  were  black 
also.  The  dark  shade  under  those  eyes  en- 
hanced their  beauty,  but  made  the  pale  face  look 
paler  still.  She  sipped  some  of  the  wine  Joan 
held  to  her  lips ;  then  stretched  out  her  arms 
for  her  baby,  and  burst  into  tears.  When  it 
was  laid  on  her  knees  they  fell  in  torrents  on 
its  little  form.  For  some  minutes  she  seemed 
utterl}'  unable  to  utter  a  word. 

Mrs.  Coggle  whispered  to  Joan,  "  Do  you 
think  her  husband  is  dead  ?  " 

Mrs.  Yates  heard  the  question,  and  it  roused 
her  from  her  grief. 

"  No,  no,  thank  God,  he  is  not  dead,  and  I 


Rosemary.  3 1 

ought  not  to  weep  so  bitterly  as  God  has 
spared  him  to  me.  But  I  must  make  haste  to 
tell  you  why  I  have  come  here,  and  what  I 
want  to  ask  you  to  do  for  me.  My  husband 
and  myself  are  going  to  sail  for  France  this 
very  night.  It  is  already  noised  about  that 
this  fire  is  the  work  of  the  Papists,  and  to- 
morrow noted  Catholics  will  be  in  danger  of 
their  lives.  Mr.  Grant  was  arrested  an  hour 
ago,  and  we  have  had  secret  information  that  a 
warrant  has  been  issued  for  Mr.  Yates's  appre- 
hension. His  cousin  William  has  been  watch- 
ing for  an  opportunity  to  denounce  him  as  a 
lapsed  recusant,  that  he  may  succeed  to  his 
property,  and  this  panic  has  doubtless  served 
his  turn.  If  my  husband  were  to  be  thrown 
into  prison  he  would  never  survive  it.  In  his 
delicate  state  of  health  the  bad  air  and  close 
confinement  would  kill  him.  We  must,  there- 
fore, fly  at  once.  A  friend  of  ours,  the  captain 
of  a  vessel  now  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  will 
convey  us  straight  away  to  France.  Mr.  Yates 
is  waiting  for  me  with  a  boat  at  the  landing- 
place  near  the  bridge.     I  could  not  let  him  go 


3  2  Rosemary. 

alone,  but  \v'hat  can  we  do  with  baby?  I  have 
no  friend  in  London  with  whom  I  can  leave 
her.  She  is,  as  you  know,  scarcely  three 
weeks  old,  and  this  is  the  first  time  she  has 
been  out  of  the  house.  We  cannot  venture  to 
take  her  with  us.  The  shock  I  sustained  on 
suddenly  opening  a  letter  which  informed  me 
of  William's  design  against  us  drove  the  millc 
from  my  breast.  I  cannot  nurse  my  child,  and 
there  is  no  time  to  procure  proper  food  for 
her ;  and  then  the  stormy  weather  and  the 
rough  sea. — O  my  God,  my  God  !  It  is  dread- 
ful whichever  way  I  look  at  it." 

Mrs.  Yates  pressed  her  hand  on  her  heart, 
and  then  her  lips  moved  in  prayer.  At  the 
end  of  a  few  instants  she  regained  her  com- 
posure, and  said  to  Mrs.  Goggle  : 

"  I  thought  you  would  perhaps  help  me ; 
that  you  would  keep  baby  till  I  can  come  and 
fetch  her." 

There  was  an  irresistibly  earnest,  pleading 
look  in  the  poor  young  mother's  face  as  she 
said  this  that  would  have  touched  a  harder 
heart  than  the  Widow  Goggle's. 


Rosemary.  2>Z 

"Well,  ma'am,"  she  answered,  "the  poor 
dear  lamb  is  for  sure  too  wee  a  thing  to  go 
a-tossing  about  the  world,  not  to  speak  of  the 
sea;  and  I  would  on  no  account  say  nay  to 
you  in  your  distress,  seeing  how  your  worship- 
ful family  dealt  with  my  good  husband  for  so 
many  years  before  you  was  ever  born." 

"  I  know  you  are  fond  of  children,  Mrs. 
Coggle.  I  am  sure  you  will  take  great  care 
of  my  poor  little  Mary." 

"  O  yes,  madam  ;  you  need  not  fear  about 
that,"  Mrs.  Coggle  replied,  wiping  her  e3'es. 
"  x\nd  though  Joan  calls  babies  fudge,  she  has 
a  good  heart  at  bottom,  and  will  be  kind,  I  am 
sure,  to  little  Missy.     Won't  you,  Joan?" 

This  appeal  to  Joan's  feelings  was  answered 
with  a  gruffness  that  did  not  alarm  Mrs.  Yates. 
In  confiding  her  child  to  Mrs.  Goggle's  care, 
her  chief  comfort  was  in  the  thought  of  Joan's 
sterling  worth ;  and  the  way  in  which  the  hard 
rugged  hand  of  the  old  servant  returned  the 
pressure  of  her  own,  which  she  had  held  out 
to  her  in  silence,  conve3'ed  more  than  words 
would  have  done. 


34  Rosemary. 

"  Now,  as  to  money,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Coggle,  who  was  not  sorry  to  hear  the 
subject  mentioned,  though,  to  do  her  justice, 
she  would  not  at  that  moment  have  aUuded  to 
it  herself;  "  I  will  leave  with  you  these  twenty 
pounds,  and  write  to  you  when  I  arrive  in 
France  to  arrange  about  baby's  coming  to  us 
as  soon  as  it  is  safe  for  her  to  travel.  O  my 
God,  will  the  day  ever  come  ?  Shall  I  ever  see 
her  again?  " 

"O  yes,  ma'am,  if  it  pleases  God  you  will; 
and  you  does  not  want  an3'thing  but  what 
pleases  Him,"  Joan  whispered  to  the  poor 
mother,  who  was  pressing  her  child  to  her 
heart  as  if  she  would  never  let  it  go. 

"  There  is  a  knock  at  the  dooi-,"  she  ex- 
claimed. It  must  be  Mr.  Yates's  servant  come 
for  me.  He  was  to  fetch  me  when  all  was 
ready.     I  must — I  must  go." 

"  You  must  take  something  first,"  Mrs.  Cog- 
gle said.  "  Let  me  get  you  something  hot  to 
drink." 

Mrs.  Yates  shook  her  head,  and  made  a  sign 
that    she    wanted    nothino-.      Then    once    more 


Rosemary.  35 

pressing  her  lips  on  her  baby's  little  face,  she 
murmured,  "  My  own  precious  one  ;  may  God's 
blessed  Mother  watch  over  you  !  "  Then,  turn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Goggle,  she  said  somewhat  timidly, 
"  I  should  have  liked,  to  have  hung  this  chain 
and  cross  round  her  neck,  but  I  am  afraid  of 
getting  )^ou  into  trouble.  But  will  you  put  it 
by  for  baby,  and  show^  it  her  sometimes  when 
she  begins  to  take  notice  ?  " 

Mrs.  Goggle  hesitated,  and  said  that  the 
times  Avere  likely  to  be  troublesome,  and  she 
did  not  like  to  keep  ever  so  small  a  crucifix  in 
her  house,  INIrs.  Yates  sighed,  and  w^as  hiding 
the  cross  in  her  dress,  when  Joan  whispered  to 
her  mistress : 

"  Look  here,  ma'am,  do  you  go  into  the  back 
parlor  and  fetch  out  of  the  cupboard  a  piece  of 
the  seed  cake  for  Mrs.  Yates.  Here's  the  keys. 
If  she  won't  eat  it  now,  she  can  put  it  into  her 
pocket  against  the  sea-air  makes  her  hungry." 
Then,  seizing  her  opportunity,  she  said,  "  Give 
me  that  cross,  Mrs.  Yates;  I'll  take  care  of  it. 
It  won't  do  no  harm  to  nobody." 

"  O,  but  if  it  w^ere  to  bring  you  into  trouble," 


36  Rosemary. 

"  Never  you  be  afraid  ;  but  look  here,  T  want 
to  know  has  this  here  child  been  baptized?" 
"  O  yes,  the  very  day  she  was  born." 
"  And  by  a  real  downright  Catholic  priest  ?  " 
"  Yes,  by  one  of  our  own  good  fathers.     Joan, 
if  I  was  to  die,  and  my  husband  also,  you  would 
be  sure  to  see  that  baby  was  brought  up  in  our 
holy  faith?" 

Joan  considered  an  instant,  and  then  answer- 
ed :  "  Well,  as  to  the  bringing  up  of  her,  that's 
more  than  I  can  promise.  You  see,  ma'am, 
them  as  should  have  their  way  in  this  world 
does  not  always  get  it,  I'm  thinking.  But  if 
you  don't  come  back,  and  this  child  lives  to 
know  black  from  white,  and  Joan  Porter  is 
alive  then,  she  shall  hear  from  her  that  you  and 
her  father  were  good  Catholics." 

Mrs.  Yates  did  not  speak,  but  she  placed  her 
baby  in  Joan's  arms,  and  gave  her  one  of  those 
looks  which  remain  forever  in  the  memory  of 
those  who  understand  their  silent  eloquence. 
Mrs.  Coggle  returned  at  that  moment  with  a 
large  piece  of  cake,  which  she  succeeded  in 
thrusting  into  Mrs.  Yates's  pocket ;  and  then, 


Rosemary.  3  7 

with  a  desperate  effort,  the  poor  young  mother 
tore  herself  away,  and  left  the  house.  How 
dark  the  narrow  street  looked,  how  cold  the 
night  air  felt,  as  she  followed  the  steps  of  the 
servant  who  was  guiding  her !  At  each  open- 
ing toward  the  river  she  caught  sight  of  the 
fire,  and  the  whole  ot  the  sky  boie  a  lurid  and 
threatening  aspect. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  NIGHT-WATCH. 

At  the  appointed  place  Mrs.  Yates  found  her 
husband  waiting  for  her.  She  whispered  to  him 
that  Baby  was  safely  housed,  and  then  they 
stepped  into  the  boat.  She  did  not  shed  a  tear 
until  they  had  got  some  way  down  the  river — 
beyond  the  crowd  of  barges,  through  which 
the  rowers  had  slowly  made  their  way.  But 
when  the  burning  cit}^  had  faded  from  her  view  ; 
when  the  air  which  had  seemed  loaded  with  foul 
vapors  began  to  blow  freshly  from  the  green 
fields,  and  naught  but  the  red  glare  still  visible 
in  the  distance  gave  evidence  of  the  fearful  con- 
flagration, which  without  that  sign  would  have 
seemed  like  a  hideous  dream  ;  when  her  hus- 
band, weak  with  illness,  and  exhausted  by  the 
sufferings  and  emotions  of  the  preceding  hours, 
had  at  last  fallen  asleep  by  her  side  ;  when  she 
had  time  to  think  and  to  feel,  then  her  tears  be- 


Rosemary.  39 

gan  to  flow.  She  thought  of  the  home  of  her 
childhood,  the  old  house  in  Berkshire,  em- 
bosomed in  trees  and  mirrored  in  the  river ;  of 
her  mother's  grave,  and  the  little  domestic 
chapel,  and  the  hbrar}^  where  her  aged  father 
was  wont  to  spend  his  lonely  evenings  and  had 
blessed  her  for  the  last  time  ;  of  her  own  house 
in  London,  where  she  had  lived  since  her  mar- 
riage ;  of  many  a  little  incident  of  those  two 
happy  years ;  of  the  joy  with  which  her  child 
had  been  welcomed  into  a  world  of  sorrow  ;  of 
the  parting  with  her,  and  the  utter  uncertainty 
of  the  future.  She  looked  on  the  pallid  and 
wan  face  of  her  young  husband  with  the  pre- 
sentiment of  an  impending  grief.  To  look  on 
sleep  and  think  of  death  !  Who  has  not  known 
the  anguish  of  that  silent  contemplation  ?  She 
mused  on  the  happy  past,  the  sad  present,  and 
the  gloomy  future,  and  could  not  refrain  from 
weeping. 

But  sorrows,  separations,  and  bereavements 
did  not  take  Catholics  by  surprise  in  those  days. 
They  were  their  daily  bread,  their  habitual 
portion.      It  might  be  said  of  them,  as  of  the 


40  '       Rosemary. 

first  Christians,  that  except  for  the  hope  of  the 
resurrection,  they  were  of  all  men  most  miser- 
able. Friends,  home,  fortune,  and  life  itself 
were  held  by  so  frail  a  tenure  that  the  world  to 
come  was  the  great  reality  ever  present  to  their 
mental  vision.  It  is  remarkable  how  much  the 
books  of  devotion  of  that  period  dwell  on  the 
anticipations  of  heaven — what  glowing  pictures 
they  draw  of  that  excellent  land  of  promise, 
the  haven  of  securit}',  the  place  of  refuge,  the 
garden  of  eternal  flowers,  and  the  crown  of  just 
persons,  ever  contrasting  its  imperishable  joys 
with  the  nothingness  of  earth.  Detachment  and 
resignation  were  virtues  continually  needed  and 
at  the  same  time  easily  practised  by  those  who, 
if  they  were  true  to  their  faith,  were  necessarily 
unworldly  ;  who  could  not  even  attempt  to  serve 
both  God  and  Mammon.  This  trained  them  to 
an  habitual  spirit  of  endurance,  a  strong-hearted 
if  not  light-hearted  acceptance  of  what  they 
were  never  for  an  instant  secure  from — the  most 
sudden  reverse  of  circumstances,  the  most  total 
overthrow  of  home  ties  and  domestic  happiness. 
Mrs.  Yates  had  never  reckoned  on  the  con- 


Rosemary.  4 1 

tinuance  of  the  peace  she  had  hitherto  enjoyed. 
The  trial  that  had  come  upon  her  had  been 
anticipated  and  prepared  for  on  her  knees  by 
daily  meditations  on  the  Passion  of  Christ  and 
a  diligent  study  of  the  lives  of  the  early  Chris- 
tians. Amongst  the  English  martyrs  who  during 
the  preceding  hundred  years  had  sealed  with 
their  blood  their  fidelity  to  the  Church  she 
counted  relatives  whose  names  were  enshrined 
as  heirlooms  in  the  hearts  of  many  an  old 
Catholic  family  with  whom  her  own  was  con- 
nected. This  had  given  her,  even  as  a  child,  a 
nobleness  of  soul  well  adapted  to  meet  dangers 
and  sufferings  not  only  with  patience  but  with 
a  kind  of  holy  joy.  For  one  moment,  indeed, 
grief  had  bowed  her  down.  She  thought  of  the 
infant  whom  she  had  left  sleeping  on  Joan  Por- 
ter's knees,  and  of  the  distance  between  them, 
which  each  instant  was  increasing.  She  glanced 
first  at  her  husband's  face,  then  at  the  sk}'  and 
the  bright  stars  above  her  head,  and  at  the 
dark  waters  on  each  side  of  them,  and  before 
her  mind  rosea  vision  of  the  flight  into  Egypt, 
sad,    sudden,    and    desolate    as    theirs.      "  But 


42  Rosemary. 

Jesus    was    with    them,"    the    mother's    heart 
whispered. 

At  that  moment  she  caught  the  sound  of  her 
beloved  one's  voice  murmuring  in  its  sleep 
words  he  had  been  constantly  in  the  habit  of 
repeating  during  his  long  illness,  "  Jesu,  Deus 
mens,  super  omnia  amo  te."  They  seemed  to 
answer  her  unspoken  thought.  She  turned  to 
Him  who  was  with  them  in  that  lonely  hour  as 
He  was  with  Mary  and  Joseph  in  the  pathless 
desert,  and  she  found  rest  to  her  soul.  All  was 
committed  to  Him — all  left  in  His  hands — and 
when  the  faint  light  of  dawning  day  broke  in 
the  east,  and  the  sea  was  in  sight  with  its  rough 
waves  and  foaming  breakers,  she  looked  upon 
it  without  shrinking,  and  said  in  her  heart, 
"  Magnificat  anima  mea  Dominum,  et  exaltavit 
spiritus  mens  in  Deo  salutari  meo." 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  NEVER   RAINS   BUT   IT   POURS. 

While  Mrs.  Yates  ana  her  husband  were  glid- 
ing down  the  river  in  the  dark  hours  of  the 
night,  and  the  conflagration  was  continuing  to 
rage  in  the  doomed  city,  Mrs.  Coggle  and  Joan 
Porter  were  anxiously  engaged  in  ministering 
to  the  comfort  of  the  little  creature  that  had 
been  left  in  their  charge.     After  feeding  it  with 
the  bottle,  Joan  had  consigned  it  to  the  imme- 
diate care  of  her  mistress  whilst  she  unpacked 
the   bundle   of  clothes  which    Mrs.   Yates  had 
brought  with   her.      The  baby  apparently  re- 
sented  being   thus   transferred,   and   began   to 
exert   that   wonderful   power   of  lungs    which 
those  unacquainted  with  the  strength  of  infants 
in  this  respect  would  never  suppose  such  small 
beings  possessed  of.      Mrs.  Coggle   was  quite 
distressed    at   the    way   in    which    little    Missy 
screamed. 


44  Rosemary. 

"Joan,  what  shall  I  do?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Sing-,"  was  the  laconic  answer  she  received. 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  sing,  but  what  shall  I  sing  ? 
The  Hundredth  Psalm?" 

"  The  Hundredth  Psalm !  Now,  ma'am,  what- 
ever you  do,  don't  go  for  to  sing  to  that  child 
those  croaking  tunes  which  you  hears,  the  more 
shame  for  you,  begging  your  pardon,  at  the 
Protestant  church.  Do  you  think  they'll  put  a 
Catholic  baby  to  sleep,  bless  it?  Can't  you 
sing  '  Margery  Daw'  ?" 

Thus  directed,  Mrs.  Coggle  intoned, 


"See  saw,  Margery  Daw- 
Sold  her  bed  and  laid  on  straw." 


And,  strange  to  say,  in  spite  of  the  shrill,  cracked 
voice  with  which  the  ditty  was  sung,  it  seemed 
to  possess  a  soporific  power.  Either  the  charm 
of  music  or  the  rocking  motion  which  accom- 
panied it  produced  the  desired  effect,  and  Missy 
soon  fell  asleep.  Whilst  she  slumbered  the  fol- 
lowing colloquy  took  place  between  Mrs.  Coggle 
and  Joan. 

"What  a  lot  of  nice  clothes  those  are!"  the 


Rosemary.  45 

former   observed.      "  They   will   last  the   little 
miss  a  long  time." 

"  Yes,  they  be  something  like  what  a  child 
like  that  should  have.     Is  she  asleep? " 

"  Yes  ;  fast,  I  do  declare." 

"  Mrs.  Yates  said  she  had  been  feeding  her 
by  hand  for  a  fortnight  past.  She  takes  to  the 
bottle  beautiful." 

"  Well,  if  the  world  is  not  full  of  troubles, 
Joan." 

"  I  think,  ma'am,  it's  like  cats,  the  older  it 
grows  the  worser  it  be." 

"  After  all,  it  ain't  such  a  bad  world  to 
everybody  ;  I  knows  of  some  in  it  who  have 
nothing  to  complain  of!  " 

"  Lord  bless  you,  ma'am  !  it  would  be  a  very 
good  world  if  He  as  made  it  had  His  own  way 
in  it,  and  folks  would  only  do  as  He  bids  them. 
I'm  speaking  of  what  people  makes  it  by  their 
wickedness." 

"  I'm  a-thinking  of  the  ladies  I  used  to  see  at 
my  late  mistress's.  They  must  be  as  happy  as 
the  day  is  long  in  their  fine  houses  and  with 
their  coaches  and  four,  and  then  such  a  lot  o' 


46  Rosemary. 

dresses  !  I  do  declare  some  of  them  had  a  new 
one  every  month  in  the  year!" 

"  Well,  to  my  mind,  that's  a  queer  sort  of  a 
happiness.  The  bother  it  must  be  to  have  to 
order  one's  coach  each  time  one  has  a  mind  to 
go  abroad,  and  to  eat  one's  victuals  as  fine  folks 
do,  with  half-a-dozen  men  staring  at  them  lU 
the  time;  and  as  to  the  gowns! — but  laws  me, 
talkin'g  of  gowns,  I'll  tell  you  what,  ma'am,  you'd 
better  give  me  that  ere  baby ;  she'll  be  the  bet- 
ter for  being  undressed  and  put  into  one  of 
these  here  nightgowns,  and  tucked  into  my  bed 
between  two  pillows,  as  we  ain't  got  a  cradle 
for  her ;  and  will  you  mean  time  fill  again  this 
bottle  with  warm  milk  and  water,  and  bring  it 
upstairs  with  you?" 

The  baby  was  carried  off  by  Joan  with  a 
clumsy  tenderness,  and  Mrs.  Goggle  set  about 
obeying  her  commands.  While  occupied  in 
this  way,  various  highly  philosophical  though 
somewhat  desultory  reflections  were  passing 
through  her  mind,  such  as  "  Dear  me,  we  never 
know  what  a  day  may  bring  forth !  to  think  of 
me  talking  of  Mrs.  Biddle's  suppers,  and  then 


Rosemary.  47 

this  fire  to  happen !  What  a  shocking  thing  a 
fire  is !  nobody  knows  where  it  begins  or  where 
it  will  end.  I  wonder  how  far  twenty  pounds 
will  serve  for  to  bring  up  a  child  ;  it  is  for  cer- 
tain a  great  deal  of  money,  but  the  heaviest 
purse  grows  light  at  last.  It  is  not  easy  to  come 
back  from  beyond  seas,  or  to  send  money  from 
so  far.  Well,  I  may  as  well  take  up  those  gold 
pieces  Mrs.  Yates  has  left  on  the  table,  before  I 
carry  up  this  bottle." 

Just  as  this  had  been  accomplished,  and  Mrs. 
Goggle  was  leaving  the  room,  the  sound  of 
a  voice  and  a  knock  at  the  door  once  more 
arrested  her  ascent,  and  threw  her,  as  she  ex- 
pressed it,  all  in  a  tremble  again.  The  knock- 
ing was  hurriedly  repeated ;  and  she  cried  out, 

"Who's  there?" 

The  voice  answered, 

"A  neighbor;  quick,  quick;  open  the 
door." 

Mrs.  Goggle  withdrew  the  bolts,  exclaiming 
in  a  fretful  manner, 

"  I  wish,  whosoever  you  be,  that  you  would 
not   flurry   folks   this    way ;  "    and   then,    in   a 


48  Rosemary. 

louder  voice,  "  Mrs.  Peterkin,  I  declare. 
God  bless  my  soul !  what  brings  you  here 
again?  " 

The  individual  thus  addressed  advanced  into 
the  room,  holding  something  in  her  arms,  wrapt 
up  in  a  blue  shawl ;  before  she  could  speak,  a 
sound  of  ci"ying  proceeded  from  the  bundle, 
and,  to  Mrs.  Goggle's  amazement,  another 
infant  met  her  e3'es. 

"Look  here,  ma'am,"  Mrs.  Peterkin  said; 
"  I've  brought  you  this  baby." 

"  Lord  bless  you,  Mrs.  Peterkin,  we've  got 
one  already.  We  don't  want  another,  I  promise 
3'ou,"  the  widow  replied  in  a  tone  of  despair. 

"  O,  but  whatever  you  do,  ma'am,  you  must 
take  this  one  in  for  the  night." 

"And,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  whose  is  it, 
and  where  does  it  come  from?" 

"  From  t'other  side  of  the  river ;  that's  all  I 
know  for  the  present,"  Mrs.  Peterkin  replied. 
"  Mv  John  was  standing  opposite  to  a  large 
house,  a-looking  at  it  burning — he  is  always  a- 
standing  a-looking  at  something — when  a  man 
comes  to  the  window  with  a  child  in  his  arms, 


Rosemary.  49 

and  cries  to  John,  'Hold  out  jour  hands  and 
catch  hold  of  this  infant.  There's  nothing  but 
flames  behind  me.'  No  sooner  said  than  done, 
and  the  babe  dropt  into  his  arms.  Like  a  fool, 
he  runs  away  with  it  till  he  meets  me.  '  There,' 
says  he,  '  I'm  rid  of  it,'  and  pops  it  into  my 
hands  with  nothing  but  this  shawl  on ;  and 
before  I  can  turn  round  he  is  off  again  like  a 
shot  to  the  fire.  Now,  Mrs.  Coggle,  you  was 
once  used  to  babies,  and  I  never  was.  If  you 
are  a  Christian  woman,  you'll  take  charge  of 
this  one  to-night,  and  to-morrow  I'll  warrant 
you  its  friends  will  come  for  it,  and  offer  you 
something  handsome  for  your  trouble." 

"  But  if  it  has  no  friends,  and  nobody 
comes?"  Mrs.  Coggle  rejoined,  with  justifiable 
misgivings. 

Mrs.  Peterkin  assured  her  that  as  the  child 
had  tumbled  out  of  a  big  house  it  certainly 
must  have  rich  friends,  and  said  that  if  the 
worst  came  to  the  worst  it  could  go  to  the 
workhouse  or  the  foundling  hospital,  and  then 
declared  that  she  could  not  stay  any  longer, 
and,  suiting  the  action  to  her  words,  deposited 


50  Rosemary. 

the  child  on  a  chair,  and  took  to  her  heels, 
crying  out  as  she  ran  away, 

"  Good-night  to  ye,  Mrs.  Goggle ;  good- 
night, and  many  thanks  to  ye  for  taking  charge 
of  the  babe." 

Poor  Mrs.  Goggle  stood  petrified  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  began  screaming, 

"  I  say,  Mrs.  Peterkin ;  I  say,  ma'am,  will  you 
stop?  You  are  a  neat  article  for  to  go  and 
leave  this  here  child  on  my  chairs  and  in  my 
hands.  Whatever  will  Joan  say  ?  O  my  good- 
ness, it's  beginning  to  cry !  Joan,  Joan ;  for 
pity's  sake  come  here  !  " 

A  voice  cried  from  the  top  of  the  stairs, 

"  Gracious  me,  mistress,  will  you  bring  the 
bottle  ?     Do  you  want  for  to  starve  this  infant  ?" 

"  Starve  it !  "  Mrs.  Goggle  retorted,  in  an  in- 
dignant manner  ;  "  one  bottle  won't  do  for  two  ; 
and  goodness  knows  how  we  shall  manage. 
Here's  another  child  saved  from  the  fire." 

"  Lord  save  us  !  "  Joan  exclaimed.  "  It  never 
rains  but  it  pours  babies  anyways.  And,  in  the 
name  of  patience,  how  did  it  come  here,  mis- 
tress ?  " 


Rosemary.  5 1 

"  Tnc  -adow  Peterkin,  of  course,  she  brought 
it  in,"  M  '3.  Coggle  replied  ;  and  began  pouring 
forth  her  indignant  feelings. 

But  Jo:in  was  not  listening.  Her  attention 
was  taken  up  by  the  child,  whose  little  hands 
and  feet  she  was  chafing. 

"  Why,  it's  just  as  cold  as  a  stone  all  over," 
she  cried.  "  One  would  have  thought  the  fire 
might  have  done  so  much  as  to  warm  it." 

And  against  her  bosom  she  warmed  the  little 
creature,  and  then  carried  it  into  her  room  up- 
stairs, and  put  on  it  one  of  the  night-gowns  of 
Mrs.  Yates's  baby,  and  laid  it  by  the  side  of  the 
first  comer  in  the  bed  between  two  pillows,  and 
fed  each  alternately  from  the  same  bottle  till  the 
two  little  children,  looking  like  birds  in  a  nest, 
fell  asleep  side  by  side.  All  the  remainder  of  the 
night  these  good  women  hovered  roimd  that 
bed.  When  one  of  the  babies  screamed  it  was 
taken  up,  fed,  dandled,  and  walked  about  the 
room,  or  else  rocked  on  the  knees  of  one  or  the 
other  of  its  nurses. 

Toward  morning  the  whole  party  dozed  off 
When  Mrs.  Coggle  opened  her  eyes  the  light 


5  2  Rosemary. 

was  streaming  into  the  room.  She  rubbed  her 
eyes,  and  asked, 

"  Has  it  been  all  a  dream,  Joan,  about  the  fire 
and  the  babies  ?  " 

"  No,  mistress.  It  isn't  a  dream  at  all,  by  the 
same  token  that  here  they  are  as  large,  or  I 
suppose  I  should  say,  as  small,  as  life.  There's 
Mrs.  Yates's  missy,  a  sucking  of  its  thumb  as  if 
she  had  the  use  of  reason." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Joan  ?  "  Mrs. 
Coggle  said,  taking  up  the  other  child.  "  This 
is  Mrs.  Yates's  baby." 

"  No  more  than  she's  mine,  ma'am." 

"  Dear  me,  Joan  ;  I'm  likely  to  know  better 
than  you.  I'll  forswear  myself  this  one  was 
lying  nearest  the  wall." 

"  Don't  forswear  yourself,  mistress.  That 
was  the  first  time  you  took  her  up  for  to  feed 
her.  Lord  bless  you  !  they  changed  places  this 
blessed  night  as  often  as  in  a  country  dance. 
But  I  knows  ver}'  well  which  is  which." 

"  That's  more  than  I  do.  I  wish  we  had  tied 
a  thread  round  their  arms  for  to  make  sure." 

"  Good  gracious,  ma'am,  what  a  fidget  you 


Rosemary.  5  3 

are.  This  here  child  is  Mrs.  Yates's ;  and  that's 
the  babe  what  Mrs.  Peterkin  brought  you." 

The  sound  of  that  lady's  name  reawakened 
Mrs.  Goggle's  ire. 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  soon  come  to  let  us 
know  what  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  She  come !  Yes,  ii"  the  parents  have  turned 
up,  and  there's  something  to  be  got  by  it." 

"  But,  then,  what  shall  we  do,  Joan  ?  " 

"  The  best  we  can,  ma'am,"  was  Joan's  laconic 
reply. 

Then,  as  both  babies  began  to  squall,  the  con- 
versation ended  for  the  time  being,  but  the  dis- 
pute began  that  morning  was  destined  to  be 
often  renewed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN   EVENTFUL  DAY. 

Nearly  three  years  had  elapsed  since  the 
events  detailed  in  the  last  chapter,  and  during 
all  that  time  the  little  house  near  Westminster 
bridge  had  known  no  change.  Mrs.  Coggle 
and  Joan  Porier  had  not  been  relieved  of 
either  of  their  charges.  Mrs.  Peterkin  had 
not  returned  and  Mrs.  Yates  had  not  written. 
Rumors  had  reached  London  that  the  vessel 
in  which  she  had  sailed  had  been  shipwrecked 
on  the  coast  of  France.  Joan  was  inclined  to 
think  that  this  must  have  been  the  case,  for  Mrs. 
Yates  would  never  have  been  so  long  without 
communication  with  them  had  she  still  been 
in  existence.  Her  love  for  the  little  Mary 
increased  in  proportion  to  what  she  believed 
to  be  her  orphaned  condition.  She  was  fond 
of  both  the  children  so  strangely  left  on  their 
hands   in   the   same   night;    but   Mrs.    Yates's 


Rosemary.  55 

Polly  was  much  nearer  to  her  heart  than  the 
one  Mrs.  Peterkin  had  consigned  to  Mrs. 
Goggle's  reluctant  arms.  The  latter,  however, 
had  taken  a  decided  fancy  to  the  child  they 
knew  nothing  about,  and  indulged  in  roman- 
tic expectations  as  to  her  future  fate.  Joan 
perceived  clearly  that  her  mistress  had  no 
distinct  impressions  as  to  the  identity  of 
the  children,  but  would  seize  upon  whatever 
opportunity  offered  of  settling  the  matter 
according  to  her  desires.  Her  own  conviction 
was  positive.  It  was  an  actual  certainty,  and 
she  succeeded  so  far  in  establishing  the  fact 
that  Polly  was  Polly  Yates,  that  neither  Mrs. 
Goggle  nor  any  one  else  called  her  by  any 
other  name ;  and  the  other  child,  who  had 
been  conditionally  baptized  by  Joan's  strenu- 
ous exertions,  and  named  Sarah,  was  never 
spoken  of  but  as  Sally.  Still  a  feeble  protest 
against  this  decision  was  occasionally  uttered 
by  the  widow,  and  the  dispute,  though  held  in 
abeyance,  was  capable  of  being  resumed  at 
any  moment.  Meantime  Sally  was  her  decided 
favorite,  whilst  Polly  was  Joan's  darling.     She 


56  Rosemary. 

used  to  talk  to  her  for  hours  together  of  her 
mother,  and  often  showed  her  the  little  cruci- 
fix which  at  other  times  she  kept  carefully 
locked  up  in  the  drawer.  The  clothes  Mrs. 
Yates  had  left  served  for  both  children  till 
they  had  outgrown  them.  Since  then  their 
place  had  been  supplied  by  Joan's  unwearied 
industry  and  generosity.  She  had  secretly 
sold,  one  after  another,  some  valuable  trinkets 
which  had  been  given  her  as  tokens  of  grati- 
tude and  regard  by  various  persons  whom  she 
had  obliged  in  da^-s  of  trial  and  persecution. 
Her  mother  had  been  a  servant  in  the  house- 
hold of  the  Spanish  ambassador,  Don  Pedro  de 
Zuniga ;  and  when  a  little  girl  she  had  lived  in 
Spitalfields,  in  the  house  of  Dona  Luisa  de  Car- 
vajal,  a  saintly  lady  of  that  nation,  who  had  for- 
saken her  country  and  all  her  worldly  posses- 
sions in  order  to  devote  herself  to  a  life  of 
poverty  and  labor  in  London,  with  the  sole 
object  of  encouraging,  assisting,  and  instructing 
the  suffering  Catholics  of  every  rank  in  that  city. 
Her  house  was  in  reality  a  convent,  established 
in  the  very  centre  of  raging  heresy  and  in  the 


Rose7nary.  57 

face  of  dire  persecution.  Joan  had  been  em- 
ployed by  her  as  a  Httle  messenger  of  mercy  on 
many  and  many  an  occasion,  and  had  learned 
lessons  under  that  roof  which  she  had  never 
forgotten.  Throughout  her  life  she  had  prac- 
tised them,  and  carried  consolation  to  many  a 
breaking  heart,  and  even  saved  several  lives 
through  her  intelligent  exertions,  discreet  pru- 
dence, and  boundless  courage.  When  she  re- 
ceived any  gifts  from  rich  persons,  they  were 
set  aside  for  the  poor;  and  thus  she  was  en- 
abled to  assist  her  mistress  in  supporting  the 
little  children  thrown  on  their  hands. 

Three  years,  as  we  have  said,  elapsed  tran- 
quilly without  any  event  to  mark  them  ;  but 
there  came  a  day  which  made  a  great  change  in 
that  peaceful  household.  One  of  the  children, 
little  Sally,  was  seized  one  morning  with  vio- 
lent convulsions ;  the  doctor  was  sent  for,  and 
prescribed,  but  without  any  good  results.  Vain 
were  Mrs.  Goggle's  tears,  vain  poor  Joan's 
prayers,  that  if  it  pleased  God  that  little  life 
should  be  spared ;  for  though  she  did  not  love 
Sally  as  much  as  Polly,  her  heart  ached  sorely 


58  Rosemary. 

when  she  saw  death  in  the  face  of  the  fair  Httle 
creature  lying  on  her  knees,  and  felt  it  was  all 
over.  She  breathed  her  last  about  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening;  and  Joan  carried  the  small 
corpse  to  the  bed  where,  since  the  night  of  the 
fire,  the  two  children  had  always  slept  together, 
and  the  following  words  fell  from  her  lips  as 
she  laid  it  out: 

"  Good-by,  dear  little  one.  We  sha'n't  never 
know  your  real  name,  and  there  will  be  nobody 
but  me  to  remember  you  and  think  as  how  you 
have  been  a  sister  to  Polly.  You  are^  gone, 
poor  lamb,  to  a  better  world  than  this ;  and 
them  as  were  your  parents  on  earth  may  be 
looking  out  for  you  there ;  but,  anyways,  there 
is  one  that  loves  you  more  than  they  did,  who 
is  a  welcoming  of  you." 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral,  which  Mrs.  Goggle 
had  not  courage  to  attend,  she  sat  at  home  with 
Polly  on  her  knees,  and  felt  so  disconsolate 
that  a  visit  even  from  Mrs.  Grump  proved  a 
relief.  After  a  few  words  of  inquir}^  as  to  the 
illness  and  death  of  the  other  child,  and  friendly 
notice  of  the  surviving  one,  Mrs.  Crump  said 


Rosemary.  59 

she  hoped  this  httle  missy  would  not  die 
too. 

"Die!  Lord  bless  you !  "  Mrs.  Goggle  replied, 
'  she's  not  a  thinking  on  it.  She  sleeps  like  a 
top  and  eats  like  a  Turk.  Dear,  dear,  it's  very 
hard  to  have  to  bury  one  child,  and  to  support 
another,  and  all  the  lime  not  to  know  which  is 
dead  and  which  is  alive." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Goggle  ?  This 
one  is  alive,  and  t'other's  dead.  What's  the 
bother?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  ma'am,  the  bother  is  this. 
Joan  has  always  had  it  that  this  is  Mrs.  Yates's 
child,  but  I  say  she  is  the  one  as  Mrs.  Peterkin 
brought  from  the  fire.  We  were  fools  that 
night  not  to  tie  a  bit  of  tape  or  something  on 
their  arras  by  which  we  might  know  them  from 
each  other.  But  we  put  them  to  sleep  in  the 
same  bed,  and  our  heads  were  confused,  I  take 
it,  and  they  had  on  the  same  nightgowns  what 
belonged  to  Mrs.  Yates  ;  and  one  of  us  fed  the 
one  and  then  the  other,  and  never  thought 
much  till  the  morning  which  was  which.  Then, 
when  it  came  to  distinguishing  them,  says  Joan, 


6o  Rosemary. 

'This  is  Polly  Yates.'  'No,'  says  I,  'this  is 
she ; '  and  so  we  goes  on,  No,  no,  Yes,  yes,  like 
Punch  and  Judy,  and  never  could  agree.  But 
Joan  had  the  last  word — she  is  a  terrible  one 
for  that,  and  has  always  called  this  child  Polly." 

The  sound  of  her  name  caught  the  attention 
of  the  httle  girl,  and  she  began  to  sing,  "  Polly, 
put  the  kettle  on." 

"  Joan  taught  her  to  sing  that  on  purpose,  I 
think,"  Mrs.  Coggle  exclaimed.  "  Where  we 
shall  get  money  to  feed  this  child,  God  only 
knows.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yates  have  been  drowned, 
I  take  it,  long  ago,  and  we  shall  get  nothing  from 
them.  All  is  so  dear  now,  and  folks  get  old. 
Pm  sure  I  wonder  how  ever  Joan  can  work  as 
she  does." 

Mrs.  Crump  thought  some  folk  lived  on  work 
and  some  died  of  it,  which  struck  Mrs.  Coggle 
as  a  very  sensible  remark.  She  should  certainly 
die  if  she  worked  half  as  hard  as  Joan. 

"  If  I  was  you,"  Mrs.  Crump  went  on  to  say, 
"  I  would  not  give  in  about  that  child.  Pvc  an 
idea  that  if  you  stick  to  your  notion  about  her, 
she  will  turn  out  to  be  the  daughter  of  some 


Rosemary.  6 1 

grand  folks  or  other,  and  be  the  making  of 
you." 

"  You're  just  saying  what  I  keep  saying  to 
Joan.  I'm  al\va3's  expecting  something  to 
happen.  And  every  day  when  I  awake,  I  says 
to  myself,  '  Now  this  may  be  the  day  on  which 
something  will  happen.' 

If  any  one  perseveres  in  this  practice  the  pre- 
vision must  at  last  be  realized ;  and  it  so  hap- 
pened that  that  very  day  and  hour  something 
did  happen  which  considerably  changed  the 
lace  of  affairs  in  the  house  by  the  bridge  side. 

Mrs.  Crump  was  beginning  one  of  her  long 
stories  about  the  way  in  which  she  and  Mrs. 
Peterkin  had  quarrelled  and  parted  company 
before  the  latter  had  left  London  to  go  and  live 
with  her  aunt  at  Dover,  from  whom  she  had 
expectations,  when  a  little  maid-of-all-work,  who 
had  been  recently  added  to  Mrs.  Goggle's 
establishment,  came  in  and  said  that  there  was 
a  lady  at  the  door  in  a  chair  asking  to  see  her 
mistress. 

Mrs.  Goggle  felt  her  heart  beating  very  fast. 
No  lady  had  been  to  see  her  for  a  long  time. 


62  Rosemary. 

She  glanced  at  the  glass  to  see  her  cap  was 
straight,  and  hastily  took  off  her  apron. 

"Ask  the  lady  to  walk  in,"  she  said,  in  an 
agitated  voice.  She  would  have  liked  to  re- 
quest Mrs.  Crump  to  walk  out.  A  bright  idea 
struck  her.  "Now,  will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 
she  said  ;  "  just  take  this  child  upstairs  and  wash 
her  face  and  hands,  and  put  on  her  new  kirtle 
and  her  white  cap,  in  case  the  lady,  whoever 
she  be,  asks  to  see  her." 

There  was  some  chance  that  Polly  would  set 
up  a  roar  on  being  led  out  of  the  room  by  Mrs. 
Crump  ;  but  an  assurance  that  there  was  a  piece 
of  sugar  in  that  lady's  pocket,  which  she  should 
have  if  she  were  good,  checked  the  outburst, 
and  Mrs.  Coggle  was  left  alone  to  receive  her 
visitor. 

A  tall,  pretty,  and  very  smartly-dressed  per- 
son came  into  the  room,  and,  in  a  manner  which 
betrayed  not  much  emotion,  but  some  agitation, 
said, 

"  I  suppose  you  do  not  remember  me.  Mistress 
Coggle.     I  am  Lady  Davenant." 

"  I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon.     I   did  not 


Rosemary.  d^, 

recollect  you  at  first ;  but  now  I  do.  I  am  not 
like  to  forget  Mrs.  Mordaunt's  daughter." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  were  very  much  attached 
to  my  mother.  I  suppose  you  heard,  at  the  time, 
of  the  death  of  my  husband  and  my  child?  " 

"  I  heard  speak  of  Sir  William's  death,  my 
lady,  but  I  did  not  know  that  your  ladyship  had 
any  children.  Since  Mrs.  Mordaunt  died,  I  sel- 
dom had  news  of  the  family." 

"  About  six  weeks  before  the  fire  of  London,  I 
had  been  confined  of  a  little  girl ;  it  was  in  try- 
ing to  save  her  that  my  husband  was  burnt  to 
death.     I  lost  them  both  that  dreadful  night." 

"  Dear  me,  my  lady,  what  a  mercy  you  did 
not  die  too  !  It  was  a  cruel  night  for  many  poor 
souls.  I'm  sure  Joan  and  I,  we'll  never  forget 
it.     And  did  you  go  abroad  then  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  my  uncle  Mordaunt  carried  me  with 
him  to  the  south  of  France,  and  I  have  lived 
with  him  ever  since.  He  is  a  great  invalid,  and 
cannot  bear  me  to  leave  him.  I  was  obliged, 
however,  to  come  to  England  on  some  business 
of  his,  and  I  thought  I  would  call  and  see  you." 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  you,  my  lady. 


64  Rosemary. 

It  is  not  often  as  I  have  the  pleasure  of  a  visit 
from  the  likes  of  you." 

At  that  moment  a  sudden  thumping  at  the 
door  made  Lady  Davenant  start ;  she  seemed 
very  nervous,  and  when  the  thumps  were 
seconded  by  a  childish  voice  calling  out,  "  Open, 
Coggy — go  'way,  Missy  Cump  !  go  'way  !  "  her 
color  changed. 

"Have  you  a  child  living  with  you  ?"  she 
asked.  "Is  it  a  girl?  let  her  come  in."  The 
door  was  opened,  and  like  a  living  picture  of 
childlike  beauty,  Polly  stood  before  her,  half- 
triumphant  at  having  got  into  the  room,  half- 
abashed  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger,  covering  her 
eyes  with  her  little  hand,  and  peeping  through 
her  fingers  at  the  dazzling  appearance  of  the 
lady  in  her  flowered  dress,  high  heels,  and  flow- 
ing cvirls. 

"  What  a  pretty  child  !  "  Lady  Davenant  ex- 
claimed. "  Come  here,  my  sweet  one ;  come 
and  speak  to  me." 

Polly  hesitated ;  but  the  sight  of  a  gold 
locket  held  out  by  the  stranger  induced  her 
to  come  forward,  and  she  consented  to  stand 


Rosemary.  65 

by  her  side  and  to  examine  her  various 
trinkets. 

Lady  Davenant  stroked  her  cheek,  patted 
her  head,  kissed  her  forehead,  and  at  last  said 
to  her,  "  What  is  your  name,  sweet  little 
puss  ?" 

"  She  does  not  know  it,  my  lad)^ ;  she  does 
not  know  who  she  is,"  Mrs.  Goggle  quickly 
replied. 

But  Polly,  to  disprove  that  assertion,  cried 
out  immediately,  "  Me's  Polly." 

"  You  call  her  Polly,  I  suppose,  but  do  you 
know  who  she  is  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,  my  lady." 

The  color  rose  in  Lady  Davenant's  cheeks, 
and  she  said,  "  Tell  me  all  you  know  about 
her." 

"  Nothing,  my  lady,  except  that  one  Mrs. 
Peterkin  brought  her  here  the  night  of  the  fire, 
three  years  ago." 

"  That  she  did,"  said  Mrs,  Crump,  who  had 
followed  Polly  into  the  room.  "  It's  as  true  as 
Pm  aHve ;  I  met  her  carrying  the  child  in  her 
arms." 


66  Rosemary. 

*'  And  she  left  her  on  that  chair — that  one  on 
which  you  are  sitting,  my  lady — and  never  has 
been  heard  of  since." 

"  I  have  heard  from  her,  and  I  have  seen  her, 
at  Dover,"  Lady  Davenant  exclaimed.  "  She 
found  out  my  direction,  and  wrote  to  me  to 
Montpellier  to  say  that  a  child  had  been  thrown 
out  of  the  window  of  a  house,  which  she  had 
since  by  accident  learned  was  Sir  William  Dav- 
enant's,  and  that  her  friend  Mrs.  Coggle — " 

"  Friend  !  good  gracious !  the  impudence  of 
the  woman !  " 

"  Well,  she  said  you  had  taken  charge  of  the 
child,  and  that  she  did  not  doubt  that  the  little 
girl  she  left  with  3^ou  was  mine.  I  spoke  to  her 
on  my  way  at  Dover,  and  she  adhered  to  her 
story.  Now  tell  me,  what  do  you  think?  Is 
there  anything  that  could  help  to  prove  it?  " 

"I'm  thinking — O  yes,  of  course,  the  shawl. 
Wait  a  moment,  I'll  get  it." 

Lady  Davenant  sat  gazing  at  Polly,  quite 
satisfied  that  she  was  one  of  the  prettiest  children 
she  had  ever  seen.  "  She  does  not  look  like  a 
lowborn,  common  child,"  she  ejaculated,  as  she 


Rosemary.  67 

stroked  the  soft  silken  hair  that  curled  round 
Polly's  little  face. 

"  No,  to  be  sure  not,  my  lady,  nor  never  did 
from  the  first  day  she  came  to  this  roof.  She 
was  always  the  genteelest  little  creature,  the 
delicatest  infant." 

"  O,  heavens !  "  Lady  Davenant  exclaimed,  as 
Mrs.  Coggle  returned  with  the  blue  shawl  in 
her  hands.  "  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it — 
not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt.  That  is  my  shawl, 
by  the  same  token  that  my  good  mother  gave 
it  me  as  part  of  my  wedding  gear.  Look 
here !  There  is  a  bit  of  the  fringe  missing. 
I  perfectly  remember,  the  day  befoi'e  the  fire, 
as  I  was  passing  through  a  narrow  passage  a 
nail  caught  and  tore  it  off.  You  swear  that 
this  child  was  wrapped  in  that  shawl  on  the 
night  she  was  brought  to  you  ?  " 

"  My  lady,  I  do  most  solemnly  swear  that 
the  child  that  Mrs.  Peterkin  brought  to  this 
house  on  the  night  of  the  Fire  of  London  was 
wrapped  up  in  that  shawl." 

"  That's  enough,  quite  enough  for  me ;  your 
testimony,  and  Mrs.  Peterkin's,  and  this  good 


68  Rosemary. 

woman's,"  she  added,  turning  to  Mrs.  Crump, 
"  all  bear  evidence  to  what  my  heart  wishes  to 
believe  and  tells  me  is  true." 

As  she  said  these  words,  Lady  Davenant  lifted 
up  Polly  to  her  knees,  and  pressing  her  to  her 
heart  said,  "  My  own  little  darling,  I  am  your 
mother." 

"  Where's  oo  coss?  "  Polly  asked. 

"  What — what  does  she  say  ?  " 

"■  I  want  oo  coss." 

"  O,  nonsense,  Polly,  nonsense,  look  at  the 
lady's  beautiful  rings.  My  lady,  I  do  feel  certain 
this  is  your  child,  and  I  have  always  said  so." 

"  That  she  has,  through  thick  and  thin,  my 
lady,"  Mrs.  Crump  testified,  who  had  often  been 
present  at  the  disputes  on  that  point. 

"  I  am  overjoyed,  Mrs.  Coggle,  at  finding  my 
little  Rose.  Rose  is  her  name,  and  you  must 
not  call  her  Polly  any  more.  How  good  it  is 
of  3'ou  to  have  taken  cai-e  of  her  so  long  and 
dressed  her  so  nicely,  and  without  any  remu- 
neration !  But  now  I  shall  pay,  if  you  please,  a 
regular  pension  for  her.  I  wish  to  leave  Rose 
with  you  for  the  present ;    I  must  return  im- 


Rosemary,  69 

mediately  to  Montpellier.  Mr,  Mordaunt  ex- 
pects me  back  before  the  end  of  the  month,  and 
I  must  not  disappoint  him.  He  is  an  old  man 
now,  and  I  am  bound  to  attend  to  all  his  wishes. 
He  cannot  endure  children,  and  I  am  afraid  it 
jvill  be  difficult  to  make  him  understand  or  be- 
lieve that  Rose  is  alive.  I  am  sure  he  will  say 
there  is  not  sufficient  proof  of  it.  Let  me  see, 
there  is  Mi-s.  Pcterkin's  assertion  that  this  dear 
child  was  thrown  out  of  a  window  at  Davenant 
House ;  I  asked  her  if  her  son  would  confirm 
her  statement,  but  he  is  dead,  it  seems ;  and 
then  this  shawl — I  am  sure  that  I  cannot  be 
mistaken  about  it ;  this  fact  of  the  rent  in  it,  you 
see,  is  conclusive.  Did  Mrs.  Peterkin  tell  you 
it  was  out  of  Davenant  House  that  the  child 
was  thrown  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lady  ;  I  can't  remember  that  she  did. 
She  said  it  was  a  large  house  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river." 

"  Exactly  ;  and  that  tallying-  with  the  produc- 
tion of  this  shawl,  I  ani  perfectl}^  satisfied.  But 
if  you  knew  Mr.  Mordaunt!  He  always  takes 
the  opposite  view  to  that  of  other  people  ;  and 


70  Rosemary. 

when  he  has  once  pronounced  an  opinion,  he 
will  not  endure  to  be  contradicted." 

"  That  is  just  like  Joan  Porter.  It's  no  use  to 
withstand  her  when  she  has  made  up  her  mind 
upon  anything,"  Mrs.  Goggle  observed,  with  a 
sigh. 

"  My  uncle  quarrelled  with  his  sister's  son, 
Mr.  George  Yates,  because  he  married  against 
his  advice ;  and  nothing  could  induce  him  to 
forgive  them.  He  will  probably  leave  me  his 
fortune,  who  am  his  niece  only  by  marriage; 
but  I  am  obliged  to  take  the  greatest  care  not  to 
offend  him.  He  is  so  strangely  suspicious,  too. 
He  always  thinks  people  are  trying  to  deceive 
him.  I  once  said,  '  How  strange  it  would  be 
if  by  some  possibility  my  little  baby  had  been 
saved,  and  I  should  find  out  that,  after  all,  she 
was  alive !  '  He  went  quite  into  a  passion,  and 
said  scornfully,  '  Your  ladyship  ' — he  always  ad- 
dresses me  in  that  way  when  he  is  angry — '  your 
ladyship  had  better  express  that  hope  publicly, 
and  plenty  of  knaves  and  impostors  will  pro- 
duce beggars'  brats  to  palm  them  upon  you!'  " 

"  O  good  gracious  !  "  Mrs.  Crump  exclaimed, 


Rosemary.  7 1 

"to  think  of  Mrs.  Coggle  being   called   such 


names 


"  Indeed,  I  never  meant  to  speak  of  her  as 
such.  Please  do  not  cry,  my  good  Mrs.  Coggle. 
I  might  not  have  relied  wholly  on  Mrs.  Peter- 
kin's  statement,  but  I  believe  every  word  you 
say.  And  then,  you  kiiow,  I  can  swear  to  this 
shawl,  that  it  was  mine.  Perhaps  in  time,  and 
with  great  prudence,  I  may  be  able  to  bring  Mr. 
Mordaunt  to  admit  that  this  is  m)^  little  Rose. 
In  any  case,  when  it  shall  please  God  to  remove 
him  from  this  world,  I  can  then  openly  adopt 
her.  In  the  meantime  how  very  fortunate  it  is 
that  she  should  have  fallen  into  your  hands  : 
you,  who  lived  with  my  poor  mother  so  many 
years  that  I  quite  look  upon  you  as  a  friend." 

"  I  am  sure  your  ladyship  is  very  good  to  say 
so,"  Mrs.  Coggle  said  with  a  sigh,  and  glancing 
uneasily  at  the  door,  having  heard  a  sound  re- 
sembling some  one  opening  the  one  on  the 
street.  Feeling  desperate,  she  whispered  to 
Mrs.  Crump,  "  For  pity's  sake,  go  and  see 
who's  in  the  passage,  and  if  it's  Joan  don't  let 
her  come  in." 


"]2  Rosemary. 

Lady  Davenant  kissed  and  fondled  the  child 
on  her  knees,  and  then  went  on  saying,  "  It  was 
very  good  of  you  to  take  such  care  of  Rose, 
when  you  did  not  know  who  she  was,  and  no 
one  paid  for  her  support.  I  am  obliged  to  leave 
London  directly.  Mr.  Mordaunt  cannot  pos- 
sibly spare  me  an}'  longer,  and  my  future  pros- 
pects depend  entirely  upon  him.  I  shall  write 
and  tell  you  all  my  wishes  about  this  dear  little 
new-found  girl  of  mine." 

"  I  shall  be  sure  to  attend  to  them,  my  lady." 
"  Here  are  fifty  pounds  to  begin  with,"  Lady 
Davenant  said.  "  I  brought  this  sum  with  me 
in  case  I  should  find  Mrs.  Peterkin's  state^iient 
confirmed.  I  would  like  you  to  hire  at  once  a 
nice  cottage  at  Spitalfields,  or  Islington,  or 
Paddington — somewhere  out  of  town,  where 
there  would  be  a  garden,  and  Rose  could  run 
about  on  the  grass.  She  is  really  a  very  pretty 
child.  You  must  get  her  everything  she  ought 
to  have  in  the  way  of  dress — everything  my 
child  ought  to  wear.  Some  nice  kirtles  and 
embroidered  kerchiefs  and  smart  lace  caps  with 
ribbons.     And  take  particular  care  of  her  hair 


Rosemary.  jT) 

and  complexion  ;  do  not  let  her  go  out  in  the 
sun  without  a  veil.  Write  to  me  often  how 
she  is.  B}^  the  way,  here  is  my  direction,  i6 
Grande  Rue,  Montpellier,  France.  I  have 
written  it  on  this  card." 

Mrs.  Coggle  courtesied,  and  longed  for  Lady 
Davenant  to  be  out  of  the  house.  Time  to 
persuade  and  manage  Joan  Porter,  two  objects 
difficult  of  attainment  as  she  had  herself  just 
stated,  were  important  at  that  moment,  and  she 
counted  the  minutes  whilst  Lady  Davenant 
:aressed  the  little  girl  and  renewed  her  thanks 
for  past  care  and  directions  for  the  future.  At 
last  she  opened  the  door  and  took  her  depart- 
ure, Mrs.  Crump  accomp.anying  her  to  her 
chair,  and  then  withdrawing  herself,  with  a 
prudent  wish  not  to  be  present  at  the  conversa- 
tion likely  to  ensue  between  Joan  Porter  and 
her  mistress. 

.  The  latter  sat  in  a  very  confused  state  of 
mind,  dancing  the  child  on  her  knee  and  sing- 
ing in  a  nervously  cheerful  manner,  "  Polly, 
put  the  kettle  on ;  "  and  then,  alarmed  at  hav- 
ing said  Polly,  turned  it  to  "  Rosy,  put  the 
3 


74  Rosemary 

kettle  on,"  which  drew  a  remonstrance  from 
Polly.  "  Polly,  not  Rosy,"  she  said,  with  the 
dislike  children  always  feel  at  a  change  in  what 
they  have  been  accustomed  to.  "  Oo  must  say 
Polly.     Rosy  not  put  the  kettle  on." 

"  O,  well,  never  mind,  my  dear.  It's  all  the 
same  thing.  Take  your  doll  now,  and  go  and 
play  by  yourself." 

Polly  having  graciously  consented  to  this, 
poor  Mrs.  Coggle  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
fire,  with  the  following  thoughts  passing  through 
her  mind.  "  What  zvill  Joan  say  ?  She  has  no 
business  to  say  anything.  She  is  only  my  ser- 
vant. I  always  maintained  Polly  was  not  Polly. 
I  am  sure  in  any  case  she  had  better  have  a  liv- 
ing mother,  and  one  that  can  provide  for  her, 
and  a  cottage  in  the  country,  and  nice  clothes 
and  all.  I  always  said  she  was  born  with  a 
silver  spoon  in  her  mouth,  and  it  would  turn  up 
at  last ;  and  so  it  has.  But  what  will  Joan  say  ? 
I  don't  care.  There,  I  declare  I  think  she's 
coming !  I  am  all  in  a  tremble. .  What  a  silly 
creature  I  am !     She  is  only  my  servant." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

JOAN'S   RESOLUTION. 

When  Joan  returned  from  the  funeral  of  the 
poor  httle  nameless  Sally,  as  she  had  always 
called  her,  she  found  her  mistress  sitting  over 
the  fire  in  a  musing  attitude,  which  she  took 
for  one  of  deep  melancholy,  and  she  proceeded 
accordingl}^  to  administer  consolation  in  the 
following  manner : 

"  Cheer  up,  ma'am.  Everything  is  best  as  it 
is.  Thank  God,  the  poor  little  soul  has  been 
baptized,  conditional  or  not  conditional,  and 
has  gone  straight  to  heaven,  like  an  arrow 
from  a  bow.  So  don't  you  look  sad.  One  child 
is  enough  for  old  folks  like  us  to  bring  up. 
Polly  here  will  give  us  enough  to  care  for 
for  many  a  long  year." 

Mrs.  Coggle  felt  it  necessary  at  that  moment 
to  strike  a  decisive  blow,  and,  summoning  up 
her  courage,  said,  "  Joan,  it's  no  use  for  to  go 


76  Rosemary. 

on  calling  that  child  Polly  ;  she  ain't  Polly  at 
all :  and  now  from  this  day  3'ou  must  call  her 
Rose — for  that's  her  name  as  much  as  yours  is 
Joan — and  moreover  she  is  Miss  Rose  Davenant. 
It  is  all  found  out.    Her  mother  has  been  here." 

"  Is  it  Mrs.  Yates  you  mean  ? "  Joan  added, 
bewildered  b}'  this  assertion. 

"  No  ;  Lady  Davenant.  She  has  heard  from 
Mrs.  Peterkin  the  short  and  the  long  of  the 
story,  b}^  letter  and  by  mouth." 

"  That  last,  [  take  it,  will  have  been  the  long 
of  it,"  Joan  exclaimed.  "  And  what  was  it  she 
heard,  ma'am  ?  " 

"That  the  child  was  here  which  had  fallen 
out  of  the  window  at  Davenant  House  on  the 
night  of  the  fire,  and  her  ladyship  knew  her 
again  directl}^  and  the  blue  shawl  too." 

"  Heaven  forgive  you,  ma'am,  that  is  if  you 
knows  what  you're  about,  which  I  question. 
Have  you  really  gone  for  to  persuade  that  poor 
lady  that  this  child  is  hers?" 

"  It  needed  no  persuasion  at  all.  She  was  as 
sure  of  it  from  the  first  as  that  you  are  standing 
there." 


Rosemary.  7  7 

"  Good  gracious !  but  did  you  tell  her  Mrs. 
Yates  had  left  her  child  here  the  same  night, 
and  that  we  mixed  them  up  together  in  her 
baby's  clothes  ? " 

"  No,  Joan ;  the  least  said  the  soonest 
mended,"  jNIrs.  Goggle  replied  in  an  oracular 
manner. 

"  Not  always,  ma'am ;  there's  many  a  lie  as 
has  been  said  by  holding  one's  tongue,"  Joan 
exclaimed  indignantly. 

"  The  very  minute  she  saw  the  shawl  she 
knew  it,"  Mrs.  Goggle  repeated,  with  that 
strange  obliquity  of  mind  which  belongs  to 
those  whose  wishes  are  on  one  side  of  a  ques- 
tion, and  whose  reasoning  powers  are  too  weak 
to  see  the  fallacy  of  their  own  arguments. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  and  let  her  have  the  shawl, 
and  welcome  to  it,  too.  It  wrapped  up  the 
poor  dear  child  we  buried  this  morning,  and  if 
it's  a  comfort  to  her  to  go  and  see  its  grave 
she  can  do  so ;  but  Mrs.  Yates's  Polly  and  mine 
she  shall  never  have,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  Mrs.  Yates  is  dead,  Joan ;  there's  no  use  in 
harping  on  what's  past." 


I 


78  Rosemary. 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  is  dead,"  Joan  re- 
torted;  "  but  if  she  should  be  dead  five  times 
over,  'tis  no  reason  to  give  her  child  to  folks  as 
won't  bring  her  up  in  her  own  faith ;  why, 
them  Davenants  ain't  Catholics  at  all." 

"  Now,  Joan,  for  pity's  sake  don't  you  talk 
aloud  of  such  like-things.  The  neighbors  may 
hear  you,"  Mrs.  Coggle  said,  lowering  her 
voice  to  a  wdiisper.  "  It  is  right  against  the 
law ;  you'll  be  the  death  of  us  some  day. 
Those  Spanishers  you  are  always  telling  of 
turned  your  brain  about  religion." 

"  God  help  you,  ma'am ;  if  you  be  speaking 
of  my  sainted  mistress,  Lady  Luisa,  I  would 
have  you  mind  what  3'ou  sa)',  for  I  do  believe 
she  is  now  an  angel  in  heaven,  and  very  like 
one  she  was  on  earth  too.  That  was  why  they 
was  so  enraged  at  her.  She  gave  heart  to  the 
most  trembling  wretch  in  fear  of  torments,  when 
she  spoke  of  the  glory  and  joy  of  dying  for 
Christ." 

"  Lord  save  us,  how  you  talk,  Joan ;  it's 
enough  to  make  one's  hair  stand  on  end.  I'm. 
sure  I  have  enough  to  think  of  without  youi 


Rosemary.  79 

putting  such  dismal  thoughts  in  my  head.  Do 
you  see  that  power  of  money  in  that  bag?  Do 
you  know  how  much  there's  in  it?  It  is  Lady 
Davenant  left  it  here.  She  wishes  me  to  hire  a 
cottage  in  the  country,  and  to  buy  ever  so  many 
things  for  this  here  little  lady.  I  am  sure  a  bet- 
ter mother  never  lived.  I'm  going  to  consult 
Mrs.  Crump,  who  has  a  cousin  that  lets  houses!" 

Joan  made  no  reply  ;  and  her  mistress,  after 
fidgeting  about  the  room  awhile,  counting 
ostentatiously  the  gold  pieces  in  the  bag,  and 
then  locking  it  up  in  a  drawer,  put  on  her 
cloak  and  hood  and  went  out. 

Joan  sat  down  and  called  Polly  to  her,  who 
jumped  on  her  knees  and  threw  her  arms  round 
her  neck. 

"  Where  mother's  coss  ? "  she  asked  ;  "  lady 
got  no  coss." 

Joan's  heart  was  full ;  she  loved  this  little 
child  with  a  deep,  strong,  faithful  love,  and  the 
thought  that  she  might  be  robbed  of  her  birth- 
right, that  her  Polly  might  be  one  day  severed 
from  the  true  Church,  struck  like  a  dagger  into 
her  heart.     She  silently  gave  the  little  crucifix 


8o  Rosemary. 

into  her  tiny  hands,  and  saw  her  press  it  to  her 
lips  as  she  had  taught  her  to  do. 

"  Good  Jesus — me  love  Him,"  little  Polly  said, 
and  then,  slipping  off  Joan's  knees,  went  back 
to  her  playthings. 

Joan  took  up  her  sewing,  and  as  she  watched 
the  little  girl  running  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  then  stopping  short  and  turning  upon  her 
her  large,  dark  blue  eyes,  full  of  tenderness  and 
glee — eyes  that  were  unlike  any  she  had  ever 
seen  save  those  of  poor  Mrs.  Yates — she  thus 
soliloquized  in  a  low  voice : 

"  For  any  one  to  tell  me  you  are  not  Polly 
Yates !  when  you  are  as  like  to  your  mother  as 
a  lamb  is  to  a  sheep.  Mistress  may  do  as  she 
pleases ;  get  a  cottage  and  buy  you  finery  too, 
if  she  Ukes,  with  that  rich  lady's  money.  She 
may  call  you  Rose,  but  for  all  that  you  will 
never  be  anything  but  Polly  to  me,  and  as  long 
as  I  live  you  shall  hear  from  old  Joan  of  your 
true  mother  and  your  Catholic  baptism.  With 
my  last  dying  breath  I  shall  witness,  my  sweet 
one,  that  you  are  her  child,  and  no  one  else's. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

RETURNED. 

Several  months  elapsed,  and  Mrs.  Coggle, 
Joan  Porter,  and  the  little  girl  under  their  care, 
had  removed  from  London  to  a  pretty  little 
house  in  the  village  of  Paddington.  Joan  had  left 
directions  with  the  neighbors  that  if  any  one 
inquired  for  her  or  her  mistress,  they  should  be 
told  of  their  present  abode  and  directed  to  it. 
It  was  more  than  three  years  since  the  night  of 
the  fire;  from  that  moment  nothing  had  been 
seen  or  heard  of  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Yates,  and  all 
hopes  of  their  return  grew  more  and  more  faint. 
On  the  other  hand,  regular  remittances  ot 
money  and  a  variet}'  of  presents  were  made  by 
Lady  Davenant  to  the  widow  and  her  little 
household.  Joan  had  to  sustain  an  unequal 
combat ;  her  arguments  in  favor  of  Mrs.  Yates's 
claims  to  the  child  were  feeble  in  comparison 
with  the  powerful  influence  constantlj'  at  work 


82  Rosemary. 

on  Mrs.  Goggle's  unreasoning  mind.  The  lit- 
tle girl  grew  accustomed  to  hear  herself  called 
b}^  two  different  names,  and  answered  to 
both. 

One  day  Joan  went  into  London  for  the  pur- 
pose of  finding  out,  at  the  house  and  street 
where  thev  used  to  live,  if  anything  had  been 
heard  of  a  lady  returning  from  foreign  parts. 
She  had  sometimes  been  on  the  same  errand 
before,  but  never  with  any  success.  However, 
this  day  the  woman  who  lived  next  door  to  her 
old  abode  said,  that  some  weeks  before,  a  person 
dressed  in  black  had  called  and  inquired  what 
was  Mrs.  Goggle's  address.  She  was  pale  and 
sickly-looking,  she  said,  and  dressed  somewhat 
shabbily. 

"And  you  gave  her  our  direction?"  Joan 
anxiously  asked. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  to  say  the  truth,  I  did  not  re- 
member it,  and  could  not  for  the  life  of  me  lay 
my  hands  on  the  bit  of  paper  on  which  you  had 
written  it.  I  asked  the  lady  if  I  should  send  it 
to  her,  but  she  said  no,  she  should  call  again. 
Howsoever,  she  has  never  come  back." 


Rosemary.  83 

"  Was  she  tall,"  Joan  asked,  "  and  had  she 
dark  blue  eyes?" 

"  Middle-sized,  I  should  say,"  was  the  answer; 
"  and  she  kept  her  veil  down,  so  that  I  did  not 
see  her  eyes.  If  you'll  write  down  on  that  slate 
near  the  chimney  where  you  lives,  ma'am,  I 
sha'n't  lose  it  as  I  did  the  paper." 

The  mention  of  this  stranger's  visit  sadly  tan- 
talized poor  Joan.  She  resumed  her  inquiries 
amongst  the  Catholics  of  her  acquaintance,  but 
heard  no  positive  tidings  of  Mrs.  Yates.  Some 
said  she  was  dead,  others  that  she  had  entered 
a  nunnery  beyond  seas ;  no  one  had  seen  her  in 
London.  Some  weeks  later  Joan  went  to  Mass 
on  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption,  at  the  Spanish 
ambassador's  chapel,  which  she  had  continued 
now  and  then  to  frequent  since  the  days  of  her 
childhood,  when  she  had  often  accompanied 
there  Doha  Luisa  de  Carvajal,  and  on  one  oc- 
casion been  present  at  a  ceremony  which  had 
left  the  deepest  impression  on  her  mind.  One 
night  her  mistress  had  taken  her  as  usual  to  the 
embassy  ;  it  was  dark  when  the}'  hfid  arrived 
there,  and  Dona  Luisa  and  some  of  her  compan- 


84  Rosemary. 

ions  repaired  to  the  chapel,  and  spent  the  even- 
ing hours  in  arranging  and  adorning  it  with  the 
greatest  care.  An  abundance  of  candles  were 
placed  on  the  altar  ready  to  be  lighted.  Beau- 
tiful flowers,  which  they  had  brought  with  them, 
hung  in  garlands  round  the  walls,  and  jewels 
and  gold  ornaments,  lent  for  the  purpose  by 
the  ladies  of  the  foreign  embassies,  adorned  the 
little  sanctuary.  Joan's  childish  admiration 
and  delight  were  unbounded.  She  gave  all  the 
little  help  in  her  power  to  the  work  that  was 
going  on,  and  wondered  what  was  the  occasion 
all  this  display  of  grandeur.  Vague  thoughts 
floated  in  her  mind  that  the  king  of  Spain  Avas 
perhaps  coming  to  London,  as  she  had  heard 
her  parents  say  he  did  a  hundred  years  ago, 
when  the  queen  of  England  was  Catholic.  At 
last  all  was  finished,  and  the  ladies  praj-ed  in 
silence  before  the  tabernacle,  and  Pedro  de 
Zuniga,  the  pious  ambassador  of  the  Catholic 
king,  was  also  on  his  knees  on  his  fine  prie-dieu, 
pouring  forth  fervent  supplications,  and  often 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his  breast. 
Meanwhile  the  little  girl  fell  fast  asleep,  and 


i 


Rose7nary.  85 

had  confused  dreams,  in  which  were  blended 
the  Passion  of  our  Lord  and  visions  of  heaven, 
derived  from  the  pictures  which  she  had  been 
gazing  on  before  her  eyes  had  closed.  She  was 
wakened  from  her  slumber  by  the  sound  of  a 
door  opening,  and  heavy  shuffling  steps  along 
the  passage  which  led  to  the  chapel,  as  if  men 
were  carr3'ing  a  heavy  weight.  The  altar  had 
become  one  blaze  of  dazzling  light,  and  a  mourn- 
ful strain,  faintly  played  on  a  musical  instrument, 
accompanied  the  steps  that  were  approaching. 
She  started  to  her  feet,  and  saw  Dofia  Luisa 
standing  before  her,  with  a  smile  of  strange 
beauty  on  her  wan  and  pallid  face. 

"  Wake  up,  little  one,"  she  said,  "  wake  up,  and 
strew  these  flowers  on  the  ground  where  the 
remains  of  Christ's  martyrs  are  about  to  pass." 

Roses  and  lilies,  and  every  kind  of  bright 
flowers,  were  in  the  basket  placed  in  the  child's 
hands,  and  she  scattered  them  in  hushed  silence 
on  the  floor  of  the  chapel ;  whilst  the  Spanish 
cavaliers,  the  young  noblemen  attached  to  the 
embassy,  headed  by  the  brave  Don  Alonzo  de 
Velasco,  bore  along  in  triumph  the  quartered 


86  Rosemary. 

remains  of  William  Scott  and  Richard  New- 
port, two  devoted  servants  of  God,  who  had 
died  for  their  faith,  and  been  buried  in  the 
charnel-house  of  Tyburn.  It  had  been  a  work 
of  no  ordinary  zeal,  for  the  bigoted  executioners 
had  thrust  the  sacred  relics  of  the  martyrs  deep 
down  into  the  pit,  beneath  the  bodies  of  assas- 
sins and  thieves,  in  the  hope  that  they  would 
be  forever  confounded  with  them.  But  faith 
and  love  are  stronger  than  hatred  and  death. 
Fired  by  the  burning  words  of  their  saintly 
countrywoman,  the  daughter  of  the  house  of 
Carvajal  y  Mendoza,  the  Castilian  youths  did 
not  shrink  from  the  loathsome  but  glorious  task. 
They  sallied  forth,  twelve  of  them,  in  the  dead 
of  night.  They  feared  not  to  bring  those  un- 
handsome corpses  "  betwixt  the  wiiid  and  their 
nobility  "  in  order  to  arrive  at  the  treasure  they 
sought ;  and  when  they  laid  the  precious  relics 
at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  and  in  the  silence  of  the 
night  sang  the  "  Te  Deum,"  they  had  their 
meed. 

Joan   Porter  never   forgot   in    after-life   that 
midnight  ceremony,  that  solemn  procession,  or 


Rosemajy.  87 

the  ethereal  hght  in  Dona  Luisa's  angelic  face, 
as  she  knelt  and  kissed  the  hem  of  the  blood- 
stained pall  which  covered  the  remains  of 
those  English  mart3^rs.  She  never  entered  that 
chapel,  to  which  she  ever  had  free  access,  with- 
out that  scene  rising  before  her  mind,  without  a 
prayer  that  she  toe  might  suffer  for  Christ's 
sake ;  and  from  the  well-known  picture  of  the 
crucifixion  over  the  altar  she  learnt  many  a  les- 
son of  courage  and  endurance,  which  had  helped 
her  to  meet  peril  without  flinching,  and  look 
death  in  the  face,  in  the  service  of  others. 

On  the  day  previously  mentioned,  at  a  dis- 
tance of  more  than  fifty  years,  she  had  dwelt  as 
usual  on  those  holy  reminiscences,  when,  lifting 
up  her  head,  which  long  had  been  bowed  down 
in  prayer,  she  caught  sight  of  a  woman  dressed 
in  black,  kneeling  at  a  short  distance  from  her. 
There  came,  as  she  expressed  it  herself,  a  lump 
in  her  throat  and  a  quick  beating  at  her  heart, 
for  something  in  the  figure,  and  as  much  of  the 
face  as  she  could  see,  reminded  her  stronglv  of 
Mrs.  Yates.  INIass  was  about  to  begin.  The 
chapels  of  the  embassies  were  the  onl}-  ones  at 


88  Rosemary. 

that  time  where  the  faithful  of  London  could 
hear  it  with  a  quiet  heart.  Everywhere  else — 
though  year  after  year,  perhaps,  the  perform- 
ance of  the  Hol}^  Sacrifice  had  escaped  notice — 
a  day  might  come  when  the  ruthless  pursuivants 
would  break  in,  seize  the  priests,  and  sometimes 
scatter  the  congregation  and  lay  violent  hands 
on  the  sacred  vessels.  It  was  therefore  no  ordi- 
nar}'  privilege  to  be  admitted  within  the  houses 
where  the  rights  of  foreign  pow' ers  forbade  such 
invasions,  and  where — thanks  to  the  unwearied 
prayers  and  efforts  of  Dona  Luisa  de  Carvajal — 
about  half  a  century  before,  the  blessed  sacra- 
ment w^as  reserved  and  adored  in  secret.  Joan 
Porter  prajed  with  her  usual  fervor — more 
fervently  indeed  than  ever,  but  at  the  same  time 
her  eyes  turned  and  her  thoughts  wandered  to 
the  place  where  the  lady  dressed  in  black  was 
kneeling ;  and  as  soon  as  the  "  Missa  est "  was 
said,  she  rose  and  hurried  toward  the  door,  in 
order  to  be  sure  to  get  a  view  of  her  as  she  left 
the  room.  It  was  some  time  before  the  person 
she  was  watching  stirred.  At  last,  when  she 
did  so,  she  drew  her  veil  over  her  face,  and  with 


Rosemary.  89 

a  noiseless  step  glided  through  the  door  and 
down  the  stairs  out  of  the  hall  door  and  into 
the  street.  Joan  followed  her  closely,  and, 
afraid  of  losing  sight  of  her,  caught  hold  of  her 
dress.  The  face  that  turned  round  to  look  at 
her  was  as  white  as  a  sheet.  The  rough  friendly 
grasp  had  been  mistc.ken  for  an  arrest;  but 
when  the  dark  blue  eyes  of  that  wan  and  pallid 
visage  met  old  Joan  Porter's,  such  a  ray  of  light 
shone  in  them  as  had  not  lighted  them  up  for 
man}-  a  day.  Mrs.  Yates — for  it  was  she — 
leaned  breathless  as^ainst  the  wall,  looking  the 
question  she  had  not  strength  to  utter. 

"Yes,  she's  alive  and  well,"  Joan  whispered  ; 
and  then  a  flood  of  tears  relieved  the  over- 
charged heart  of  the  poor  mother. 

"  Don't  cry  3'our  heart  out  this  way,  ma'am  ; 
but  come  with  me,  and  you  will  see  our  Polly." 

"  He  will  never  see  her — " 

"Poor  Mr.  Yates,  you  mean?  No,  not  in 
this  bad  world  ;  but  you'll  all  meet  in  heaven, 
which  is  better.  Can  you  walk  with  mc  as  tar 
as  Paddington  to-night?" 

"  I  don't  know.     O  3'cs,  an3-whcre,  as  long  as 


90  Rosemary. 

ray  limbs  will  carry  me  to  see  her.  Is  she — O 
Joan! — shall  I  really  see  her?" 

"Of  course  you  will.  But 'in  the  name  of 
goodness,  why  haven't  you  w^ritten  all  this  time, 
ma'am?  " 

"  I  have  written.  Did  you  not  receive  any 
letter  from  me?" 

"  Not  a  scrap  of  one." 

"  And  no  money  ?  " 

"  No,  never  a  bit." 

"  I  never  could  send  much,  but  once  I  trusted 
•a  person  who  was  coming  to  England  with  a 
small  sum  he  promised  to  deliver  safely.  We 
lived  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  place — a  small 
village  miles  distant  from  any  high  road,  on 
the  part  of  the  coast  where  we  were  ship- 
wrecked." 

"  And  how  did  you  ever  manage  to  get  on 
there,  ma'am?  " 

"  Miserably  enough.  My  husband  became 
too  ill  to  move ;  I  could  not  leave  him ;  and  it 
was  only  b}^  sending  my  trinkets  to  be  sold  at 
the  nearest  town  that  we  obtained  means  of  sub- 
sistence.    At  last  he  died,  and  all  I  had  suffered 


Rosemary.  91 

before  seemed  as  nothing  compared  to  the  an- 
guish of  that  bereavement.  But  on  the  day  he 
was  laid  in  his  humble  grave,  in  the  little  cem- 
etery of  the  village,  I  set  off  for  England.  As 
he  was  taken  from  me,  my  child  was  the  only 
object  I  had  to  live  for,  and  I  half  paid  and  half 
begged  my  wa}^  to  England.  But,  Joan,  I  have 
no  money  to  give  to  Mrs.  Goggle,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  claim  my  child  till  I  can  pay  what 
I  owe  her.  Everything,  you  know,  was  taken 
from  my  husband,  because  after  having  been 
tempted  in  a  weak  moment  to  den}-  his  faith,  he 
retracted  and  boldly  returned  to  the  practice 
of  his  religion.  I  must  work,  and  must  earn 
money.  I  must  repav  all  that  has  been  spent 
on  my  Mary." 

"Yes,  yes,  all  in  good  time;  I'll  keep  my 
mistress  quiet  about  tiiat.  But  do  you  come 
and  fetch  away  your  Polly,  and  take  her  home 
with  you  at  once." 

"  Home  !  "  Mrs.  Yates  repeated,  in  so  sad  a 
tone  that  the  tears  came  into  Joan's  eyes.  She 
felt  all  that  that  word  conveyed  of  heart-break- 
ing   memories    and    actual    desolation    to    the 


92  Rosemajy. 

widowed  mother.  She  longed  to  comfort  her, 
but  did  not  know  how. 

After  a  pause,  Mrs.  Yates  said,  "  I  will  take  a 
little  room,  however  small,  somewhere  near 
where  you  live — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  Joan  exclaimed,  "that  is  the 
sensiblest  thing  that  you  have  yet  said." 

"  I  will  seek  for  needle-work,  and  by  de- 
grees— " 

"  O  3'es,  degrees  will  do  vei*y  well.  Only 
fetch  away  Polly." 

"Is  she  not  happy  —  not  well  cared  for?" 
INIrs.  Yates  anxiously  asked. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  yes,  and  only  too  much 
coddled  by  half.  But  she  had  best  be  with  her 
own  mother  for  all  that.  So  you  could  not  find 
us  out?  " 

"  No,  I  vainly  inquired  amongst  your  old 
neighbors.'  One  person  gave  me  one  direction 
— another,  another ;  and  it  was  in  vain  I  went 
from  place  to  place  to  try  and  find  3^ou." 

"Then  you  will  come  soon?" 

"  This  evening,  after  I  have  performed  a 
sacred  dut3^" 


Rosemary.  93 

"  Never  mind  sacred  duties.  The  sacredest 
is  to  come  to  your  child." 

"  I  did  not  mean  a  religious  duty,  Joan, 
though  indeed  it  is  a  holy  duty  in  one  sense — a 
debt  of  gratitude  to  be  paid.  A  priest  at  St. 
Omer,  who  saved  me  from  despair  by  his  gen- 
erous charity,  has  given  me  a  message  to  take 
to  his  brother,  who  is  in  the  Marshalsea, 
accused  of  having  entered  into  the  supposed 
plot  for  setting  London  on  fire.  The  knowl- 
edge I  can  convey  to  him  may  preserve  him 
from  death,  and  save  the  property  of  many 
recusants." 

"  Let  me  go,"  Joan  exclaimed  ;  "  I  am  used  to 
the  like  secret  contrivances,  and  do  you  go  to 
Paddington.  I  am  a  better  match  any  day,  I 
take  it,  than  you,  ma'am,  for  the  parliament, 
and  gaolers,  and  the  rest  of  them." 

"  No ;  nothing  will  make  me  consent  to  that. 
I  have  no  fear  for  myself.  It  is  not  to  the 
prison  I  am  going,  but  to  a  place  Father  Sutton 
told  me  of,  where  I  shall  find  some  one  who 
will  take  charge  of  the  letter  and  conve}-  it  into 
the  Marshalsea.     So  3'Ou  see  I  run  no  risk,  and 


94  Rosemary. 

this  evening  I  hope  to  get  to  Paddington. 
Please  give  me  your  address.  If  you  knew 
what  I  feel  at  the  thoughts  of  seeing  my  little 
child  !  O,  dear  Joan,  will  she  understand  I  am 
her  mother?  " 

"Fast  enough,  I'll  warrant  you,  as  soon  as 
you  show  her  a  cross  ;  and,  by  the  way,  here's 
your  own,  hidden  here  in  my  breast.  But  stop, 
I  won't  give  it  to  you  now,  just  as  you  are  run- 
ning your  head  into  the  lion's  mouth  ;  for  this 
carrying  of  letters  to  priests,  God  bless  them,  is 
dangerous,  and  may  end  in  ever  so  many 
mishaps." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought,  Joan,  that  you 
would  find  it  in  your  heart  to  dissuade  me 
from  an  act  which  may  save  the  life  of  one  of 
God's  servants.  What  would  Dona  Luisa  have 
said  ? " 

*'  Dona  Luisa  never  was  married,  God  bless 
her ;  and,  as  St.  Paul  says,  that's  the  best  state 
to  be  in,  where  you  need  no  more  care  for  your 
head  being  chopped  ofFor  your  limbs  quartered, 
than  if  you  blew  your  nose ;  but  if  folk  will 
marry  and  have  children,  then  they  should  look 


Rosemary.  95 

after  them  as  can't  look  after  themselves.  So 
do  you  give  me  that  there  letter." 

"  No,  Joan  ;  my  mind  is  quite  made  up.  I 
have  a  message  to  deliver  as  well  as  a  letter. 
Pray  that  God  may  speed  me  on  my  way,  and 
to-night—" 

She  wrung  Joan's  hand  and  walked  quickly 
away.  The  old  woman  stood  awhile  looking 
after  her,  and  then,  as  if  rousing  herself  from  a 
fit  of  painful  abstraction,  directed  her  own  steps 
homewards. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A   SLIP   BETWEEN   THE   CUP   AND   THE   LIP. 

Many  a  day  had  come  and  gone  since  the  one 
on  which  Joan  Porter  had  met  Polly's  mother 
in  the  chapel  of  the  Spanish  embassy,  and 
talked  to  her  afterwards  in  the  street.  She  often 
asked  herself  if  this  brief  interview  had  been  a 
vision  or  a  dream.  For  on  the  night  of  that 
interview,  and  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  she 
had  watched  and  waited  for  the  coming  of  Mrs. 
Yates,  and  whenever  the  door  opened  expected 
to  see  her  appear.  But  she  never  came,  and 
the  long  silence  that  had  preceded  that  sudden 
apparition  was  again  renewed.  Neither  letter 
nor  message  relieved  her  anxiety.  She  had 
prudently  forborne  to  mention  to  Mrs.  Coggle 
on  her  return  home  that  day  that  Polly's  mother 
was  in  London,  and  was  about  to  visit  them 
and  her  child.  She  thought  it  would  be  better 
that  she  should  be  taken  by  surprise,  and  there- 


Rosemary.  97 

fore  held  her  tongue.  But  as  her  anxiety  in- 
creased she  gave  hints  on  the  subject  which 
were  very  ill  received.  She  had  come  to  the 
end  of  her  little  savings,  and  had  no  longer 
strength  to  walk  great  distances.  So  she  could 
neither  make  personal  inquiries  nor  pay  the 
postage  of  letters.  Poor  Joan  felt  very  sad  and 
very  helpless.  Polly  was  growing  every  day 
more  engaging,  and  learned  her  catechism  so 
well,  and  said  her  prayers  so  prettil3^  that  any 
one  would  have  been  proud  of  her.  Lady 
Davenant  regularly  sent  the  quarterly  allow- 
ance for  the  maintenance  of  her  child,  and  for 
all  sorts  of  indulgences  besides. 

"  She  is  a-stealing  away  of  her  heart,"  Joan 
used  to  murmur,  when  these  presents  were 
produced,  and  she  had  to  use  every  art  her  art- 
less nature  could  summon  into  play  to  counter- 
act their  effect  on  Polly.  When  she  carried 
her  into  the  fields  she  took  advantage  of  her 
childish  passion  for  buttercups  and  daisies,  and 
called  them  "  mother's  presents." 

"Did  mother  make  them?"  Polly  asked  one 
day.      And  Joan  would  reply,  "  No,  but  I  am 


98  Rosemary. 

sure  she  asks  God  to  give  them  to  Polly."  And 
the  same  with  the  strawberries  and  the  bunches 
of  red  and  white  currants  which  Joan  begged 
for  her  darling  from  the  market-woman.  She 
always  contrived  to  connect  them  with  the 
thoughts  of  poor  mother,  who  had  such  beauti- 
ful blue  eyes  and  such  soft  white  hands,  and  had 
so  many  kisses  ready  on  her  lips  to  give  her 
child  when  she  could  come  to  her.  Those  little 
plans  succeeded.  "  Tell  about  mother  "  was 
Polly's  constant  request  when  she  sat  on  old 
Joan  Porter's  knees,  watching  the  glowing 
embers  in  the  winter,  or  the  rosy  clouds  in  the 
evening  sky  on  the  long  summer  days.  And 
whenever  she  was  taken  by  her  devoted  friend 
to  one  of  the  chapels  of  the  foreign  embassies, 
she  immediately  used  to  point  to  the  pictures 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  whisper,  "  That's 
mother."  "  Hush,  don't  talk  now,  there's  a 
dear,"  Joan  would  answer.  She  was  not  per- 
haps very  sorry  that  the  thought  of  her  mother 
in  heaven  and  her  mother  on  earth  were  some- 
times blended  in  Polly's  mind. 

Nothing  was  heard  of  Mi-s.    Yates   for  five 


Rosemary.  99 

years.  Then  one  day  a  priest,  whom  Joan 
happened  to  meet  at  a  Catholic  house  where  she 
had  gone  to  hear  Mass,  gave  her  a  little  note 
written  in  pencil,  which  explained  her  disappear- 
ance. She  had  been  thrown  into  prison  on  the 
very  day  Joan  and  she  had  met  at  Spanish  Place, 
on  the  charge  of  traitorously  commvmicating 
with  a  state  prisoner.  Notice  had  been  given 
to  the  pursuivants,  of  the  house  where  some 
noted  Papists  were  looking  to  receive  informa- 
tion from  abroad,  and  a  part}'  of  them  were 
watching  near  the  door  to  arrest  any  one  who 
approached  it.  Mrs.  Yates  had  no  sooner 
reached  it  than  she  found  herself  in  the  hands 
of  the  pursuivants,  and  the  letter  she  was  carry- 
ing fell  into  their  hands.  She  was  consigned  to 
prison — kept  in  close  confinement — forgotten 
by  every  one,  for  she  had  no  relatives  and  few 
friends.  For  the  first  time  she  had  managed 
to  obtain  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  with  a  bit  of  coal 
had  written  a  few  lines  to  a  priest  she  knew, 
and  begged  him  to  communicate  to  Joan  Porter 
her  sad  history,  and  send  her  blessing  to  her 
child.     Poor  Joan    wiped    her   eyes,  and    said. 


lOO  Rosemary. 

"  I'm  glad  she  isn't  dead,"  and  then  went  home 
and  wondered  how  ever  she  might  get  to  speak 
to  her,  and  maybe  help  her  out  of  prison.  It 
seemed  very  hopeless.  She  was  so  infirm,  and 
though  she  had  done  much  for  others  in  her 
da}',  she  knew  not  where  to  find  her  friends; 
for  the  revival  of  persecution  after  the  Fire  of 
London  had  dispersed  the  most  noted  Catholics, 
and  most  of  them  had  gone  into  the  country  or 
changed  their  abodes. 

Mrs.  Coggle  would  rather  of  the  two  that 
Mrs.  Yates  had  been  dead  than  in  prison.  She 
would  then  have  felt  quite  easy  in  her  mind, 
would  have  said,  "  Well,  poor  soul,  she  is  at 
rest,"  and  there  would  have  been  an  end  of  it. 
As  it  was,  she  was  really  and  sincerely  sorry 
she  was  shut  up,  and  yet  dreadfully  afraid  she 
should  come  out.  And  she  ended  by  declaring 
she  did  not  believe  that  that  scrap  of  paper 
meant  anything,  and  she  dared  say  it  was  all  a 
mistake ;  and  anyhow  it  was  not  their  fault, 
which  nobody  had  said  it  was ;  and  so  the  matter 
rested,  except  that  poor  old  Joan  made  fruitless 
efforts  to  convey  letters  and  messages  to  the 


Rosemary.  loi 

prisoner ;  and  spent  her  last  shilling,  a  luck}'' 
one  with  a  hole  in  it,  to  bribe  the  turnkey  to  let 
her  in.  But  it  did  not  succeed,  nor  did  her 
appeals  to  some  Catholics  who  were  supposed  to 
be  m  favor  at  Court  turn  out  as  she  had  hoped. 
Some  took  no  notice  of  her  letters ;  others  said 
it  was  no  use  to  stir  in  the  matter,  or  it  was  bet- 
ter not  to  remind  people  of  this  lady's  existence, 
as  she  was  in  prison  on  a  very  serious  charge, 
and  might  be  tried  for  her  life.  When  the  Duke 
of  York  came  to  the  throne  there  w^ould  be  a 
better  chance.  Poor  comforts,  scanty  hopes, 
heart-sickening  delays  !  And  meanwhile  Polly 
was  growing  tall  and  slim,  and  very  lovel3\ 
She  was  ten  years  old,  and  Joan  had  well 
instructed  her  in  her  religion,  and,  unknown  to 
Mrs.  Coggle,  had  been  preparing  her  for  her 
first  communion.  She  had  been  to  confession 
to  a  good  old  Jesuit  Father,  who  had  been  Joan's 
own  director  for  years,  and  who  took  a  great 
interest  in  Mrs.  Yates's  child.  On  the  next 
Easter  Day,  then  close  at  hand,  she  was  to  have 
received  the  Bread  of  Angels,  her  Lord  and 
her  God,  in  her  young  heart.     It  alwaj-s  seems 


TJBt?..at;y 


I02  Rosemary. 

strange  to  our  limited  views  when  a  holy 
purpose  is  frustrated  ;  when  some  grace  long 
prayed  for  and  waited  for  is  withheld  at  the 
very  moment  when  our  hopes  are  highest  and 
our  desires  most  ardent ;  when  what  it  is  right 
intensely  to  wish  for  is  denied,  and  our  prayers 
appear  to  be  flatly  rejected  instead  of  granted. 
Joan  had  passionately  longed  for  the  hour  when 
Mrs.  Yates's  child  was  to  approach  the  altar  for 
the  first  time.  She  counted  the  days  and  then 
the  hours  till  that  hour  should  arrive.  It  was 
actually  to  be  on  the  next  morning.  She  had 
planned  everything  so  as  to  avoid  Mrs.  Goggle's 
observation  or  interference,  and  foresaw  no  diffi- 
culty in  the  accomplishment  of  the  cherished 
hope  of  her  heart.  Polly  sat  on  her  knees, 
though  rather  old  for  that  now,  and  asked  for 
her  mother's  cross. 

"Dear  Joan,"  she  said,  "may  I  wear  it  to- 
morrow whilst  I  am  in  the  chapel  ?  We  can 
hide  it  under  my  kerchief  till  we  get  upstairs." 

It  w^as  upstairs,  in  a  house  a  little  way  off 
from  the  one  where  they  lived,  that  a  small 
garret  served  as  a  chapel.     It  was  there  a  few 


Rosemary.  103 

Catholics  met  on  great  festivals  to  hear  Mass 
and  approach  the  Sacraments,  It  was  there 
they  had  to  go  at  break  of  day,  before  any  one 
in  the  neighborhood  was  stirring. 

"  Why,  yes,"  Joan  said ;  "  you  shall  wear  it, 
my  dear;  and  look  what  I've  got  for  you  here. 
Some  one  as  I  know  brought  this  letter  an  hour 
ago.  I  had  prayed  bard  for  some  means  to  let 
your  mother  know  that  to-morrow  you  are  to 
make  your  first  communion.  The  angels  must 
have  helped  us,  for,  lo  and  behold,  I  met  this 
person  yesterday,  and  he  said  to  me,  '  I've  a 
chance  to  speak  to  a  prisoner  in  the  Marshalsea. 
Have  you  any  friend  there.  Mistress  Porter,  as 
you'd  like  to  send  a  greeting  to?'  My  heart 
jumped  into  my  mouth,  and  sure  enough  I  told 
him  what  to  say  to  one  Mrs.  Yates,  and  this 
morning  he  gives  me  this  here  paper — )'0ur 
mother's  own  writing — my  precious  one.  See 
what  she  says." 

On  a  tiny  bit  of  paper  was  written  in  a  mi- 
nute hand  what  St.  Theresa  once  wrote  in  her 
breviary.  It  seemed,  perhaps,  a  singular  choice 
the  mother  had  made  of  these  sentences  to  con- 


1 04  Rosemary.  • 

gratulate  her  young  child  on  her  first  commun- 
ion ;  but  she  was  perhaps  inspired  to  select 
them. 

"Let  nothing  trouble  thee, 
Let  nothing  affright  thee. 
All  things  pass  away. 

God  never  changes. 
Patience  obtains  everything, 
Nothing  is  wanting  to  him 
Who  possesses  God. 

God  alone  suffices." 

Polly  read  them,  and  said,  "  I  will  let  nothing 
affright  me,  Joan,  whatever  happens." 

An  hour  afterwards,  a  lady  and  gentleman 
called,  and  begged  to  see  Mrs.  Coggle,  They 
announced  themselves  as  friends  of  Lad}^  Dav- 
enant's,  and  produced  a  letter  from  her,  in  which 
she  begged  that  her  young  daughter  should  be 
given  up  to  Mr.  and  Mistress  Brj'done,  who  at 
her  request  had  made  all  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments for  removing  her  to  a  seminar}-  at  Rich- 
mond, where  her  education  was  to  be  carried  on. 
They  were  in  London  only  for  a  very  few  days, 
which  would  account  for  the  suddenness  of  this 
announcement.  Rose  Davenant  was  to  proceed 
with   them  at  once  to  her  new  home,   where 


Rosemary.  105 

she  would  be  trained  in  a  manner  befitting  her 
birth  and  fortune.  Mrs.  Coggle  might  visit  her 
there  whenever  she  thought  fit,  and  Lady  Dav- 
enant  would  continue  to  that  lady  for  life  the 
pension  she  had  paid  while  her  child  was  under 
her  care.  She  was  glad  thus  to  testify  her  sense 
of  the  excellent  way  in  which  Mrs.  Coggle  had 
performed  the  duties  she  had  undertaken. 

"  A  pension  for  life !  "  this  was  indeed  more 
than  the  widow  had  expected.  Such  handsome 
thanks  too — and  Polly,  that  was  to  say  Rose,  to 
be  educated  as  a  young  lady  of  high  rank !  It 
was  all  good  news,  if  only — O,  if  only  Joan  had 
been  out  of  the  house  !  Not  that  she  could 
stand  out  against  her,  and  against  Lady  Dav- 
enant's  friends,  but  perhaps  she  would  try  and 
make  all  sorts  of  unpleasantness.  Necessity,  or 
even  a  difficulty,  stimulates  invention.  Mrs. 
Coggle,  with  the  courage  of  despair,  begged 
the  gentlefolk  to  sit  down  awhile  in  her  parlor, 
while  she  slipped  out  and  got  a  prescription 
out  of  the  cupboard  of  her  bedroom,  which  she 
carried  to  Joan,  who  was  at  that  moment  super- 
intending the  girl  in  the  kitchen. 


io6  Rosemary. 

"  Joan,"  she  cried  in  an  agitated  voice,  "  please 
to  step  out  with  this  here  prescription  to  the 
chemist.  I  am  taken  all  on  a  sudden  so  ill  in 
myself,  that  I  want  this  medicine  made  up 
directly,  there's  my  good  Joan;  and  wait,  I  beg 
of  you,  if  it  be  ever  so  long,  while  it  is  making, 
for  them  bo3'S  as  they  send  out  with  the  phj^sic 
never  do  bring  it  till  the  next  day." 

Joan  made  no  reply,  but  took  down  her  cloak, 
put  on  her  bonnet,  and  in  another  moment  was 
out  of  the  house. 

When  Mrs.  Coggle  returned  to  the  parlor,  a 
load  was  off  her  mind  ;  she  said,  "  Now,  I  sup- 
pose you  would  like  to  see — Miss  Davenant?" 

"  Yes,  and  if  it  is  not  inconvenient  to  you, 
we  will  take  her  away  with  us  at  once,  and 
a  cart  will  call  in  the  evening  for  her  luggage." 

Mrs.  Coggle  stood  irresolutely,  with  the 
handle  of  the  door  in  her  hand.  "  Must  she  go 
at  once?"  she  asked. 

"  Indeed,  I  think  we  must  beg  of  you  to  let 
her  do  so,  for  we  have  no  time  to  spare,  and 
are  anxious  to  report  to  Lad}'  Davenant  that 
her  wishes  have  been  carried  out." 


Rosemary.  '    107 

"But  I  hope,"  Mrs.  Brydone  exclaimed, 
"  that  she  won't  cry  and  fret  at  parting  with 
you,  for  that  sort  of  thing  makes  me  positively 
ill." 

"  I'll  tell  3'ou  what,  ma'am,"  INIrs.  Coggle 
cried  ;  suppose  you  say  you  are  taking  her  out 
for  an  airing,  and  then  Joan  and  I  can  go  and 
see  her  to-morrovr.  We'll  hire  the  grocer's 
cart,  he  does  not  use  it  every  day ;  and  so  the 
dear  lamb  won't  feel  the  parting  so  much. 
You'll  be  sure  and  say,  when  you  leave  her  at 
the  school,  that  we  shall  ride  to  Richmond  for 
to  see  her  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  perhaps  that  will  be  the  best  way," 
Mrs.  Brydone  said,  "and  if  you  can  get  her 
bonneted  and  cloaked,  we  can  set  out  directly." 

A  few  moments  afterwards  the  little  girl 
came  in,  blushing  deeply  at  the  thoughts  of  a 
ride  in  a  fine  coach  with  a  gentleman  and  lad}'. 
Mrs.  Coggle  could  hardly  keep  from  cr3'ing ; 
but  interest  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  fear  of 
Joan  on  the  other,  made  her  hurry  to  the  con- 
clusion which,  sooner  or  later,  she  knew  must 
be    inevitable.       "  And    it's    no    long    parting 


io8  Rosemary. 

either,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  stood  at  the 
door  watching  the  carriage  drive  away,  which 
Polly  had  entered  under  the  full  belief  that  she 
was  only  taken  out  for  an  hour's  ride. 

There  are  actions  which  people  have  a 
vague  feeling  at  their  hearts  are  wrong,  and 
yet  they  do  not  quite  see  why  they  should  be 
so,  taking  for  granted  their  own  view  of  the 
case.  Polly  was  just  as  much  Rose  Davenant 
as  Polly  Yates.  Mrs.  Coggle  had  always  said 
so ;  and  here  was  her  live  mother,  who  had  a 
right  to  her,  claiming  her  child  :  and  what  for 
but  to  make  a  lady  of  her,  and  all  of  them  com- 
tortable  for  all  their  lives,  and  to  give  her  a  fine 
education,  and  no  parting,  for  to  speak  of,  from 
the  dear  child  ?  She  went  upstairs  to  pack  up 
the  child's  clothes,  and  somehow  all  the  little 
odds  and  ends  that  filled  her  drawers  seemed 
to  reproach  her  with  this  sudden  departure. 
There  was  her  doll  that  she  was  so  fond  of; 
would  they  let  her  have  it  at  school,  she  won- 
dered? Anyhow  they  would  take  it  to  her  the 
next  day.  And  then  the  spelling-book,  in 
which  she  had  made  her  first  studies,  and  the 


Rosemary.  109 

primer,  half-finished,  in  a  little  basket.  Poor 
Mrs.  Coggle  began  to  feel  more  and  more  sad, 
and  when  at  last  she  heard  Joan's  voice  on  the 
stairs,  she  actually  trembled,  and  felt  as  much 
frightened  as  if  she  had  murdered  the  child. 
She  had  not  realized  what  it  would  be  to  have 
to  tell  Joan  that  Polly  was  gone.  When  she 
did  so,  when  the  poor  old  woman,  whose 
thoughts  had  been  dwelling  on  the  child's  first 
communion  as  the  consummation  of  ten  years' 
incessant  devotion,  love,  and  prayer,  heard,  and 
at  last  understood,  that  her  darling — the  child 
of  the  poor,  imprisoned  Catholic  mother — had 
been  given  up  to  strangers  and  to  Protestants, 
was  severed  from  the  means  of  grace  and  the 
practice  of  her  religion,  her  agony  was  so  great, 
that  though  it  only  found  vent  in  the  woj"ds, 
"God  forgive  you,  mistress;  you  don't  know 
what  you've  done !  "  there  was  an  expression 
in  her  face  which  frightened  the  widow. 

"  O  Joan,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  not  going 
for  to  die  !  " 

"No,  ma'am,"  Joan  answered;  "if  I  can,  I'll 
live,  please  God,  to  save  her." 


no  Rosemary. 

She  sat  some  time  wrapt  in  thought,  feeling 
the  whole  bitterness  of  her  grief,  measuring  the 
impossibility  of  recovering  the  child,  save  by 
incessant  prayers  that  God  would  find  the 
means  and  bring  about  the  end.  Joan  was 
endowed  with  the  highest  degree  of  practical 
good  sense.  She  never  did  anything  useless,  but 
never  left  undone  anything  possible.  She  did 
not  lament  or  upbraid  after  the  first  expression 
of  her  grief  and  indignation.  She  held  her 
peace,  and  when  she  went  to  see  Polly  the  next 
day,  and  the  child,  throwing  herself  into  her 
arms,  clung  wildly  to  her,  with  passionate 
entreaties  to  be  taken  home,  and  whispered 
cries  that  she  hated  the  Protestant  prayers,  and 
would  always  be  a  Catholic,  she  did  not  indulge 
in  any  outburst  of  feeling,  but  uttered  a  few 
words  that  sunk  deeply  into  the  young  heart 
beating  so  wildly  against  her  aged  breast — 
such  words  as  God  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the 
humble  of  heart  and  strong  in  faith  when  they 
are  struggling,  like  guardian  angels,  to  save 
souls  committed  to  their  charge  by  a  nameless 
trust,  or  rather  a  secret  Providence. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   BOARDING-SCHOOL  AT   RICHMOND. 

On  one  of  those  lovely  afternoons  of  an  English 
summer,  at  the  hour  when  the  lights  and  shades 
on  the  grass  and  amongst  the  foliage  impart  the 
greatest  charm  to  woodland  scenery,  what  is 
more  beautiful  than  Richmond,  and  the  view 
from  its  glorious  terrace?  The  very  name  of 
it  awakens  a  vision  hardly  to  be  surpassed  in 
nature  or  in  art :  the  hill,  the  park,  the  bridge, 
the  bright  glassy  river ;  the  masses  of  green 
above  and  beneath,  and  spreading  out  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach — the  soft  blue  sky,  and  the 
white  fleecy  clouds  casting  their  shadows  on 
the  stream  and  on  the  mead.  Each  time  that 
after  a  long  interval  we  stand  again  on  the  height 
above  that  smiling  scene,  its  beauty  takes  us 
by  surprise.  In  the  days  we  are  writing  of,  it 
looked  rdifFerent  in  man}'  respects  from  what  it 
does  now.     It  lacked  most  of  the  villas  that  line 


112  Rosemary. 

the  margin  of  the  Thames.  The  town  itself,  and 
the  green,  comprised  most  of  the  habitable 
houses,  and  there  was  still  something  primeval 
in  the  woods  that  separated  it  from  the  adjoin- 
ing villages  of  Petersham  and  Twickenham. 

Mrs.  Dimple's  boarding-school  was  situated 
between  the  green  and  the  river.  It  was  a  large 
red  brick  house,  with  gable  ends ;  the  garden 
had  wide  alle3^s,  lined  with  trees,  and  a  maze, 
which  formed  the  delight  of  the  j^ounger  schol- 
ars. In  a  long,  low  room,  extending  from  one 
end  of  the  building  to  the  other,  on  a  lovely 
afternoon  in  June,  some  of  the  older  pupils  were 
assembled,  and  occupied  with  needle-work — 
which  formed  at  that  period  a  more  important 
part  of  a  girl's  education  than  it  does  at  present. 
Their  tongues  did  not  rest  while  their  fingers 
w^ere  employed  ;  and  the  following  conversation 
took  place  during  iNIrs.  Dimple's  momentary 
absence  from  the  work-table. 

Fann)^  Marchbanks  asked  Jane  Caldwell  if  she 
had  seen  a  huge  parcel  of  cakes  and  sweetmeats 
which  Emma  Robson  had  received  from  her 
aunt — which  drew  forth  the  remark,  that  girls 


Rosemary.  1 1 3 

whose  relatives  lived  in  the  country  were  those 
who  received  most  nice  things  in  the  course  of 
the  year.  Ann  Dawson  said  that  Rose  Daven- 
ant  was  the  best  off  of  all  in  that  respect.  She 
got  from  France  large  cases,  filled  with  flat 
baked  apples  and  dried  plums,  and  ever  so  many 
rare  biscuits. 

Upon  this,  Jane  remarked  that  Rose  Daven- 
ant  was  a  queer  girl.  Bessie  Fairchild  looked 
up  indignantly  from  her  embroidery,  and  ex- 
claimed that  Rose  was  the  nicest  girl  in  the 
school,  and  she  saw  nothing  queer  about  her. 
Jane  retorted  that  at  any  rate  a  queer  body 
came  to  see  her.  That  old  woman,  with  a  night- 
cap and  a  great  umbrella,  who  looked  for  all 
the  world  like  a  Jack-in-the-Green  or  a  Guy 
Fawkes.  For  her  part,  she  wondered  that  Rose 
— if  she  was  a  lady's  daughter — should  spend 
her  holidays  in  a  mean  part  of  the  suburbs  with 
two  old  women,  who  were  neither  kith  nor  kin 
to  her.  Ann  said,  that  the  only  time  she  had 
ever  seen  Rose  in  a  passion  was  when  some  of 
the  girls  giggled  at  the  sight  of  Mistress  Por- 
ter's dress. 


114  Rosemary. 

"  Well,  I  wonder,"  rejoined  Jane,  "  wh)'-  her 
mother  —  whom  one  would  think  doted  on 
her,  by  the  lots  of  presents  she  receives — does 
not  send  for  her  home  to  where  she  lives  in 
France.  Bessie  may  say  what  she  pleases,  but 
I  declare  there's  something  uncommon  about 
that  girl." 

"  I  never  said  there  wasn't,"  Bessie  warmly 
rejoined.  "  I  think  there  is  something  uncom- 
monly good  and  uncommonly  nice  about  her. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Fanny  ?  " 

Before  Fanny  could  answer,  Jane  exclaimed, 

"  Fm  sure  she  thinks  her  queer." 

"Well,  Jane,  if  it  is  queer  to  be  always  ready 
to  do  a  kindness,  and  always  to  speak  the  truth, 
even  if  one  should  have  to  suffer  for  it,  Fll  grant 
you  Rose  is  queer." 

Ann  admitted  that  she  was  very  good  about 
not  telling  tales,  and  would  often  help  girls  with 
their  lessons  at  a  pinch. 

"  Ah,  but  you  don't  know  what  Fve  found 
out,"  Jane  said,  in  a  kind  of  impressive  whisper, 
which  commanded  general  attention ;  and  once 
secure  of  this,  she  said  in  the  same  tone,  "  She 


Rosemary.  115 

wears  a  cross,  which  she  hides  in  her  dress.  I 
have  seen  her  kiss  it,  too.  She'll  be  in  an  awful 
scrape,  if  Mrs.  Dimple  finds  her  out." 

"You  don't  think  she  is  a  Papist?"  Ann 
asked,  in  a  horrified  voice. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  Jane  said,  "if  she  is  not 
one,  the  old  woman  who  comes  to  see  her  is 
as  rank  a  one  as  ever*  lived.  The  new  parlor 
maid  says  so." 

"  Dear  me, "  Ann  ejaculated,  "  how  very 
strange  !  I  shall  look  at  her  closely  the  next 
time  she  pays  Rose  a  visit.  I  wonder  what 
Papists  are  like  ?  " 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the 
young  girl  who  had  always  been  called  Rose 
Davenant  at  Mrs.  Dimple's  school  came  into  the 
room.  She  was  tall  and  very  pretty  :  her  coun- 
tenance expressive,  and  her  manner  engaging. 
Even  those  of  her  companions  who  had  been 
speaking  of  her  disparagingly  seemed  to  feel 
the  influence  of  that  peculiarly  winning  manner. 
She  came  in  with  a  box  of  chocolate  in  her  hand, 
and  offered  some  to  all  the  girls,  till  the  contents 
were  exhausted. 


ii6  Rosemary. 

"You  have  kept  none  for  yourself,"  Bessie 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  don't  care  for  it,"  was  the  smiling-  answer. 
Then  she  turned  to  Jane  Caldwell,  and  said,  in 
a  kind  way,  "  You  look  tired,  Jane." 

"  I  am  tired  to  death  of  this  stitching,"  Jane 
replied.  "  I  am  a  horribly  slow  worker,  and 
never  get  to  the  end  of  my  task  in  time.  It  is  a 
horrid  bore,  for  the  girls  are  going  into  the  park 
this  evening,  and  I  shall  be  kept  at  home  if  this 
is  not  finished." 

Rose  eagerly  stretched  out  her  hand,  and 
said, 

"  Let  me  finish  it.  I  had  an  easy  piece  of 
work  to  do  to-day,  which  took  me  a  very  short 
time.     I  shall  like  to  go  on  with  yours." 

Bessie  Fairchild,  who  was  sitting  next  to  Jane, 
whispered  to  her, 

"  She  is  a  queer  girl,  is  not  she?  " 

Jane  pretended  not  to  hear ;  allowed  Rose  to 
take  her  work  from  her,  and  leaned  her  head 
against  the  top  of  her  high-backed  chair  with 
a  look  of  considerable  satisfaction. 

x\nn   Dawson  observed    that    the    chocolate 


Rosemary.  117 

was  excellent,  and  asked  if  it  came  from 
France. 

Rose  nodded  assent,  and  Fanny  asked  her  if 
she  was  not  longing  to  go  to  France. 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  should  be  dj'ing  for  it,"  she 
said. 

"Have  you  never  seen  your  mother?"  one 
of  the  girls  inquired,  who  had  not  been  long  at 
the  school. 

Rose  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  bent  down, 
as  if  to  look  for  her  needle. 

"  I  wonder  why  you  don't  go  home  for  the 
holidays?"  Jane  said,  rocking  herself  back- 
wards and  forwards  on  her  chair. 

"  If  you  knew  anything  of  geograph)',"  Fanny 
said,  "  you  would  know  that  it  takes  more  time 
to  go  to  Montpellier  and  back  than  the  holi- 
days last." 

"  It  must  be  so  odd  never  to  see  one's  mother ! " 
Jane  rejoined  ;  upon  which  Bessie  waxed  very 
wrath,  and  said  to  her,  in  an  angry  manner: 

"  Don't  you  see  that  you  are  vexing  Rose  by 
your  foolish  talk?  You  have  no  business  to 
make  such  remarks." 


Ii8  Rosemary. 

"  Mind  your  own  business,  and  don't  preach 
to  me  !  "  was  the  rejoinder.  "  I  have  a  right  to 
say  what  I  please.  It  is  not  my  fault  if  a  girl  is 
so  thin-skinned  that  she  can't  bear  to  hear  a 
simple  remark  like  that." 

"If^I  were  you,  Rose,"  Fanny  cried  out,  "  I 
would  not  do  another  stitch  of  Jane's  work. 
She  is  very  ill-natured." 

"  I  did  not  begin  to  speak  of  her  mother,  and 
I'm  sure  I  did  not  ask  her  to  help  me,"  Jane 
exclaimed. 

"  No,  you  did  not,"  Rose  said,  making  a 
strong  effort  over  herself,  and  speaking  good- 
humoredly  ;  "  and  you  did  not  mean  to  vex  or 
tease  me.  You  wanted  to  rest,  and  1  wanted 
something  to  do — so  it  was  all  right,  and  as  it 
should  be." 

This  conciliatory  speech  produced  a  happy 
effect,  and  all  went  on  peaceably.  At  the  strik- 
ing of  the  clock,  Mrs.  Dimple,  the  very  picture  of 
a  school-mistress,  of  that  day,  made  her  appear- 
ance, and  gave  orders  that  the  young  ladies  who 
had  finished  their  task  should  rise  and  prepare 
for  their  evening  walk.     When   she  perceived 


Rosemary.  119 

that  Rose  did  not  move,  and  continued  to  work, 
she  commented  on  the  propriety  of  the  regula- 
tions that  deprived  of  their  recreation  those 
young  ladies  who  idled  over  their  tasks.  She 
uttered  some  just  though  rather  prosy  senti- 
ments on  the  merits  of  diligence,  and  observed 
neither  Jane's  uncomfortable  look  of  conscious- 
ness, nor  the  fact  that  Bessie  had  unpicked 
some  of  the  stitches  at  the  end  of  her  strip 
of  muslin,  in  order  not  to  appear  to  have  fin- 
ished her  task,  and  so  to  attain  to  the  enviable 
privilege  of  spending  an  hour  in  the  quiet, 
deserted  school-room  w^ith  Rose,  whom  she  wor- 
shipped with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  girlish 
affection.  The  stratagem  succeeded.  The  work- 
boxes  were  closed  one  by  one,  the  young  ladies 
left  the  room,  Mrs.  Dimple  at  their  head,  and 
then  the  door  was  shut.  Two  chairs  moved  to 
the  window,  where  the  two  friends  sat  enjoying 
the  perfume  of  the  lime  blossoms,  the  singing 
of  the  birds,  the  cool  air  blowing  in  upon  them 
from  the  river,  and  the  intense  pleasure  of  being 
together  and  communicating  freely  their  pent- 
up  thoughts.     Justice  had  been  blind  on  this  as 


1 20  Rosemary. 

on  other  occasions,  and  her  ends  had  been  ful- 
filled ;  for  Rose,  as  she  was  called  at  school,  and 
her  faithful  ally,  Bessie  Fairchild,  had  not 
deserved  punishment,  and  enjoyed  what  they 
both  looked  upon  as  a  great  pleasure.  The 
following  conversation  took  place  between 
them. 

"  I  am  so  glad  we  are  alone,"  Bessie  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  want  to  know  if  you 
have  seen  Joan  lately." 

"  Not  for  a  long  time.  I  wish  she  would 
come,  or  write  to  me.  She  is  not  much  of  a 
scholar,  Joan,  and  it  takes  her  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  to  pen  a  letter.  You  are  the  only  one 
in  the  world,  Bess,  besides  Joan,  to  whom  I  can 
speak  of  what  I  am  always  thinking  of." 

"  You  mean  your  two  mothers,  and  which  is 
the  real  one?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  so  passing  strange  to  receive 
letters,  such  very  different  ones,  and  such  kind 
ones,  from  two  persons  both  calling  themselves 
my  mother,  and  not  to  know  which  is  really 
my  own." 

"  Mrs.    Dimple    always    calls    Lady    Daven- 


11 


Rosemary.  121 

ant  your  mother,  and  so  does  your  Mrs. 
Goggle." 

"  Yes,  but  Joan  does  not ;  and  I  am  inclined 
to  think  she  knows  best." 

'■'■  Which  of  them  has  written  to  you  last  ?  " 

"  O,  Lady  Davenant.  She  writes  very  often, 
and  on  fine  thin  paper,  which  smells  of  perfume. 
She  calls  me  her  s\veet  Rose,  and  promises 
in  her  last  letter  that  I  shall  soon  live  with  her 
in  a  beautiful  house,  go  out  into  society,  and 
enjoy  the  pleasures  and  gayeties  of  the  world." 

"  Does  she  really  ?  What  a  change  that  will 
be  from  this  dull  life  at  school !  Don't  you  like 
the  thoughts  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  a  sort  of  way ;  but  it  frightens  me, 
too,  to  think  of  it.  Joan  has  told  me  so  often, 
since  I  was  quite  a  little  child,  that  we  are  not 
to  love  the  world  nor  the  things  of  this  world. 
How  shall  I  help  doing  so  if  I  am  to  live  in  it, 
and  enjoy  all  its  pleasures?  Even  in  the  cate- 
chism we  learn  here  we  are  made  to  say  that  at 
our  baptism  we  renounced  all  the  pomps  and 
vanities  of  this  world." 

"  Yes,    I  know ;    and  yet  every  girl  here  is 
6 


122 


Rosemary. 


longing  for  the  time  when  she  shall  be  finely- 
dressed,  and  go  to  balls  and  assemblies." 

"  I  have  heard  very  seldom  from  my  other 
mother,  Mrs.  Yates — only  six  or  seven  times 
during  the  many  years  I  have  been  at  school. 
Her  letters  are  written  on  coarse  bits  of  paper, 
and  appear  to  be  written  with  a  bad  pen,  or 
rather  with  the  stump  of  one.  This  is  the  last  I 
received  from  her ;  I  always  carry  it  about  with 
me." 

"  O,  do  let  me  read  it." 

"  I  will  read  it  to  you.  The  handwriting  is 
difficult  to  make  out,  but  I  know  every  word  ot 
it  by  heart.     It  is  very  short. 

"'My  dearest  Mary, — lam  hardly  able  to 
write  at  all  times,  and  cannot  say  all  I  should 
wish.  I  lack  the  means  of  doing  so,  and  must 
take  such  as  present  themselves,  thanking  God 
that  I  can  send  even  these  few  lines.  To  Him 
I  commend  thee,  my  precious  one,  praying  that 
He  may  have  thee  in  His  keeping,  and  that  my 
child  may  learn  to  wait,  to  pray,  and  even,  if  it 
should  be  His  will,  to  suffer,  like  her  poor  loving 
mother.'  " 


Rosemary.  123 

"  O,  what  a  sad  letter !  "  Bessie  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  it  does  not  make  me  feel  sad.  I  have 
indeed  shed  many  tears  over  it ;  but  when  I  press 
it  this  way  against  my  heart,  it  seems  to  make  it 
burn  with  the  love  of  God." 

"  What  a  strange  way  of  talking  that  is !  One 
never  hears  any  of  the  clergymen  speak  of  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"  No,  indeed,  there  is  not  much  warmth  in 
their  sermons.  One  of  Joan  Porter's  short 
teachings,  when  we  are  left  a  moment  alone,  is 
worth  all  their  preachings  put  together  in  that 
respect." 

"  Where  does  Mrs.  Yates  write  from  ?  " 

"  The  letter  does  not  say  ;  but  if  you  will 
promise  not  to  tell  anybody,  I  will  confide  to 
you  a  secret  about  her." 

"  I  promise  I  won't.  You  know.  Rose,  I 
always  keep  my  promises.  I  never  said  any- 
thing about  your  cross  ;  but  that  odious  Jane 
has  found  out  that  you  have  one." 

"  Don't  call  people  odious,  dear  Bess.  You 
know  what  our  Lord  says  of  those  who  use 
words  of  that  sort." 


1 24  Rosemary. 

"  You  are  so  strict,  Rose.  All  the  girls  do  so, 
more  or  less.  But  now  tell  me  about  Mrs. 
Yates." 

"  Well,  Bessie,  she  is  a  Catholic,  a  Roman 
Catholic,  and  has  been  shut  up  a  long  time  in 
prison,  because  she  would  not  betray  the  name 
of  a  priest  to  whom  she  had  brought  a  letter. 
She  was  arrested,  Joan  says,  with  that  letter  upon 
her,  the  very  day  when  she  was  coming  to  fetch 
me  away  from  Mrs.  Coggle's  house,  ten  years 
ago." 

"  What,  has  she  been  all  that  time  shut 
up?" 

"  Yes.  Joan  says  she  would  have  been  re- 
leased long  ago  if  she  would  have  given  the 
name  of  the  priest.  But  she  would  not  do  it. 
I  think  it  is  so  brave  of  her.  It  is  being  a 
mart3^r,  or  at  any  rate  something  like  it.  Joan 
said  the  last  time  I  saw  her  that  she  had  some 
hopes  now  she  would  soon  be  set  free.  A 
good  Protestant  gentleman  is  working  very 
hard  about  it." 

"  Does  Mrs.  Dimple  know  that  Joan  is  a 
Catholic?" 


Rosemary.  125 

"  I  am  not  sure.  She  seems  lately  to  take 
great  care  not  to  leave  us  much  alone  together." 

"  But  if  she  knew  it,  she  would  not  let  her 
come  here  at  all." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  Mrs.  Dimple  has 
a  kind  heart." 

"Well,  I  know  that  she  had  me  whipped 
when  I  first  came  heie  because  I  said  I  was  a 
Catholic." 

"  But  was  it  true,  Bessie,  that  you  were  one  ?  " 

"  I  was  till  my  father  and  mother  died  ;  then 
my  uncle  sent  me  here,  and  said  I  was  to  be  a 
Protestant." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something.  I  am  not  so 
much  afraid  about  Jane's  knowing  about  my 
having  a  cross,  because  Mrs.  Dimple  found  it 
out  some  months  ago." 

"  How  ever  did  you  let  her  see  it?" 

"  Well,  I  was  not  very  well  last  winter.  I 
had  a  bad  cold,  and  was  lying  awake  one  even- 
ing when  the  other  girls  in  our  room  were  fast 
asleep.  I  had  taken  my  cross  into  my  hands. 
I  often  do  when  I  am  not  sleeping.  All  at  once 
I  saw  Mrs.  Dimple  standing  by  my  bedside  with 


126  Rosemary. 

a  basin  of  caudle  in  one  hand  and  a  candle  in 
the  other.  She  had  come  in  so  softly  that  I  had 
not  heard  her.  Directly,  I  saw  that  she  had 
taken  notice  of  my  cross.  But  she  said  noth- 
ing, only  told  me  to  drink  what  she  had  brought 
for  my  cold,  and  try  to  go  to  sleep.  Well,  two 
or  three  da)'s  afterwards  she  sent  for  me  to  her 
own  parlor.  You  know  how  one's  heart  beats 
when  that  happens.  She  looked  dreadfully 
grave  when  I  went  in,  and  began  in  the  voice 
3'ou  know :  "  Young  lady,  you  have  on  your 
person  or  in  your  box  a  forbidden,  treasonable, 
and  dangerous  possession,  which  I  require  you 
at  once  to  place  in  my  hands,  in  order  that  it 
may  be  dealt  with  according  to  the  laws  of  this 
country  and  of  this  school.  I  ought  to  inflict 
vipon  you  a  severe  chastisement,  which  would 
yet  be  mild  in  comparison  with  what  the  magis- 
trates would  award  3'ou  should  your  offence 
come  to  their  knowledge ;  but  this  time  you 
shall  be  pardoned,  providing  you  promise  not 
to  repeat  the  offence."  I  stood  silent  a  moment, 
and  then  I  said,  "  Madam,  my  heart  will  break 
if  you  take  from  me  the  cross  which  my  mother 


Rosemary.  127 

gave  me ;  but  to  resign  it  voluntarily  I  never 
will,  whatever  punishment  may  be  inflicted  on 
me." 

"  She  looked  at  me  steadily,  and  said,  '  Truly, 
did  your  mother  give  you  that  graven  image, 
and  is  your  value  for  it  founded  on  your  love 
for  her  ? '  I  answered  not  the  first  question, 
because,  although  I  should  have  spoken  the 
truth  in  mine  own  thoughts,  I  might  have  been, 
later  on,  charged  by  her  with  falsehood  ;  but  I 
said  boldly,  '  Madam,  I  do  value  it,  first  and 
chiefly  for  the  love  of  Him  who  is  represented 
on  that  cross,  and  died  thereon  for  each  of  us, 
and  afterwards,  also,  for  a  meaner  love,  inso- 
much as  it  is  earthly.'  She  said  nothing,  but 
opened  my  dress,  and  cutting  its  string,  laid 
hold  of  my  cross.  O  Bessie  !  God  only  knows 
how,  from  a  baby,  I  have  prized  it,  and  when 
I  have  missed  all  other  comfort,  found  it  in  this 
likeness  of  Christ  our  Lord.  I  said  nothing,  but 
the  sudden  sinking  of  my  heart  was,  I  think, 
expressed  in  my  countenance,  for  our  mistress 
relented.  She  hesitated  a  little ;  then,  embold- 
ened, I  spoke :    *  O   mistress,  1  have   been  or- 


128  Rosemary. 

phaned  of  the  care  of  a  parent  from  my  earliest 
infancy.  Take  not  from  me  what  has  often 
stood  me  in  the  stead  of  what  I  lost  thereby.' 
After  a  moment's  silence,  she  said,  '  You  have 
learned  in  the  history  of  Greece  how  the  young- 
Spartans  were  publicly  chastised  if  discovered 
doing  that  which  nevertheless  might  be  other- 
wise commendable.  If  you  continue  to  keep 
this  keepsake,  since  it  is  such,  from  the  eyes  of 
your  school-fellows,  it  may  remain  with  you  ; 
but  if  you  should  be  known  to  have  it,  public 
disgrace  and  punishment  will  follow ; '  and 
so  I  was  dismissed,  with  more  love  in  my  heart 
toward  our  mistress  than  I  had.  ever  felt 
before." 

"  But  now  you  are  in  the  power  of  that  ill- 
natured  Jane,  who  may  inform  the  mistress  of 
it,  as  she  did  just  now  the  other  girls." 

"Well,  then,  I  must  bear  the  punishment; 
and  even  so,  I  do  not  think  the  cross  will  be 
taken  from  me.  You  see,  Mrs.  Dimple  thinks 
it  is  Lady  Davcnant  who  gave  it  me.  But, 
Bessie  dear,  are  you  still  in  heart  a  Catholic  ?  " 

"  So  much  so  that  I  say  a  '  Hail  Mary  '  every 


Rosemary.  129 

day,  and  would  not  like  to  go  to  sleep  with- 
out it." 

"  So  do  I,  and  I  always  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross  under  my  tippet.  Joan  keeps  me  up  to  it, 
and  says  it  would  break  my  mother's  heart  if  I 
were  actually  to  turn  Protestant." 

"  Then  you  do  really  think  Mrs.  Yates  is  your 
mother,  and  not  Lady  Davenant?" 

"  From  what  Joan  tells  me  I  am  sure  of  it, 
and  something  in  my  heart  persuades  me  it  is 
so." 

"  Did  you  hear  that  knock  at  the  door  ?" 

"Yes,  and  I  heard  just  now  the  carriage 
wheels  in  the  road.  I  hope  it  is  some  of  Mrs. 
Dimple's  own  friends." 

"  Why  so?" 

"  O,  because  she  will  then  sup  with  them  in 
her  own  parlor,  and  we  shall  be  more  free  this 
evening." 

"  How  nice  the  air  from  the  river  is  !  Don't 
you  like  to  hear  that  rustling  in  the  trees  when 
the  evening  breeze  begins  to  blow  ?  There,  I 
have  finished  Jane's  work.     Is  yours  done  ?  " 

"All  but  one  stitch." 


130  Rosemary. 

"  Do  you  think  we  might  walk  in  the  garden 
a  httle,  as  we  have  finished  our  tasks  ? " 

The  door  opened  just  as  Rose  was  asking 
that  question,  and  a  maid  said,  "  Miss  Davenant, 
you  are  requested  to  come  into  the  parlor." 

"Is  Mrs.  Coggle  there?  or  dear  old  Joan?" 
Rose  cried  eagerly,  springing  forward. 

"  No,  Miss,  neither  one  nor  the  other,  some- 
body very  different.  But  I  have  been  forbidden 
to  mention  who." 

Rose's  heart  began  to  beat  violently.  "  It  is 
one  of  them,"  she  said  to  herself — "which?  I 
must  wash  m^-  hands  before  I  go  to  the  parlor," 
she  said,  hastily  running  past  the  maid.  Once 
in  the  dormitory,  she  locked  the  door,  knelt  for  a 
moment  by  her  bedside,  kissed  her  little  crucifix, 
and  then  having  bathed  her  face  and  hands  in 
cold  water,  walked  slowly  down-stairs,  feeling  as 
if  there  was  a  mist  before  her  eves. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LADY     DAVENANT. 

Lady  Davenant  was  not  much  changed  by 
the  twelve  years  thit  had  passed  over  her  head. 
She  was  still  a  very  pretty  woman,  was  dressed 
in  the  extreme  of  the  fashion  of  her  day,  which 
was  a  very  becoming  one.  There  was  a  sunny 
smile  on  her  face  and  a  sprightliness  in  her 
manner  which  could  not  fail  to  be  engaging. 
She  was  sitting  by  Mrs.  Dimple's  side  when  the 
young  girl  whom  she  looked  upon  as  her  daugh- 
ter came  into  the  room.  She  rose  with  extended 
arms,  and  cried, 

"  O  my  Rose !  my  child !  this  is  indeed  a 
happy  moment." 

It  was  somewhat  in  accordance  with  the 
habits  of  the  time  that  she  who  was  thus 
addressed,  instead  of  rushing  into  those  open 
arms,  made  a  low  obeisance,  seized  one  of  the 
lady's  hands,  and  kissing  it,  said. 


132  Rosemary. 

"  Dear  honored  madam,  how  kind  you  are  !  " 
Lady  Davenant  raised  the  kneeling  girl, 
pressed  her  to  her  breast,  and  then  made  her  sit 
by  her  side,  keeping  one  of  her  hands  in  hers. 
She  looked  at  her  with  evident  satisfaction. 
Even  in  her  simple  school  dress  she  looked 
lovely.  It  was  a  peculiar  style  of  beauty,  not 
much  color  in  her  face,  but  a  delicate  white  com- 
plexion ;  regular  features,  and  wonderfully  beau- 
tiful eyes,  made  her  exactly  what  Lady  Davenant 
would  have  wished,  except  in  one  respect. 
She  saw  at  once  that  she  was  not  the  least  like 
herself.  Perhaps  there  shot  across  her  mind 
at  that  instant  a  sort  of  doubt,  which  would 
not  have  even  arisen  had  she  been  rosy  and 
dazzlingly  fair ;  but  it  was  no  more  than  a 
passing  thought,  instantly  dismissed.  Still 
holding  her  hand,  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Dimple 
and  said : 

"  I  have  so  long  looked  forward  to  this  day ; 
I  really  thought  poor  dear  Mr.  Mordaunt  would 
never  depart  this  life.  I  have  been  a  perfect 
slave  to  him,  especially  since  he  lost  his  sight. 
If  I  had  left  his  side  even  for  one  month  he 


Rosemary.  133 

would,  I  doubt  not,  have  changed  his  will,  and 
left  his  fortune  to  a  Mrs.  Yates,  the  widow  of 
his  nephew.  He  had  disinherited  them  because 
they  were  Papists  ;  but  sometimes  he  used,  when 
he  was  out  of  temper  with  me,  to  speak  of  them 
as  his  heirs.  After  George  Yates's  death,  he 
lost  all  knowledge  of  her,  but  often  wondered 
if  he  had  left  children.  Once  he  dictated  to  me 
some  inquiries  on  the  subject,  and  sent  the  letter 
to  a  friend  in  England,  but  it  received  no  answer. 
You  may  imagine  what  an  anxious  life  I  led, 
and  how  impossible  it  was  for  me  to  absent 
myself.  However,  all  is  well  that  ends  well,  as 
the  great  dramatist  says.  I  have  inherited  all 
his  fortune,  and  can  take  this  dear  child,  who  I 
see  at  once  does  high  credit  to  your  tuition,  to 
a  house  which  she  will  enjoy,  I  hope,  as  much 
as  myself.  We  shall  lead  a  very  agreeable  life. 
Rose,  I  promise  you.  Lady  and  Miss  Dav- 
enant  will  appear  at  Court  next  winter  and 
astonish  the  gay  world.  But  I  see  tears  in  your 
eyes.  I  hope  you  are  crying  for  joy." 
Rose  blushed  deeply,  and  answered, 
"  Your  goodness,  dear  madam,  exceeds  all  I 


134  Rosemary, 

could  have  expected,  even  after  the  many  past 
favors  I  have  received  from  you.  But  I  am 
bewildered  at  the  prospect  of  so  sudden  and 
great  a  change  ;  and  then,  I  am  not,  I  fear,  what 
you  would  wish  me  to  be,  in  more  ways  than 
one." 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  dear,"  Lady  Davenant 
replied,  "  1  commend  highly  your  humility  ;  but 
I  assure  you  that  I  am  very  much  pleased  with 
your  appearance,  and  when  3'ou  are  dressed 
according  to  m}^  fancy — in  the  style,  I  mean,  in 
which  my  friend  Sir  Peter  Lely  paints  the  beau- 
ties of  the  Court — your  good  looks  will  be  much 
enhanced.  Your  eyes  are  fine,  and  with  a  little 
rouge  and  a  few  patches  the  whiteness  of  your 
complexion  will  show  to  great  advantage.  Do 
you  play  on  any  musical  instrument?" 

"  On  the  guitar,  madam,"  Rose  timidly 
answered. 

"  She  has  a  pretty  talent  for  music,  and  dances 
very  gracefully.  Her  disposition  is  truly  amia- 
ble, and  her  heart  affectionate." 

Mrs.  Dimple's  voice  showed  some  emotion 
as   she    uttered    those    last    words.     Rose    had 


Rosemary.  1 3  5 

always  been  one  of  her  favorite  pupils,  and  she 
was  touched  by  her  tears,  which  she  ascribed  to 
sorrow  at  leaving  school — a  tribute  seldom  paid 
to  it  by  the  young  ladies  on  their  final  depar- 
ture. 

Some  farther  conversation  passed,  and  then 
Rose,  after  a  tender  embrace  from  Lady  Daven- 
ant,  was  dismissed,  and  sent  to  her  companions, 
with  permission  to  tell  them  that  in  three  days 
she  was  to  leave  school,  and  that  on  the  eve 
of  her  departure  a  whole  holiday  would  be 
granted,  and  a  parting  feast  held  under  the 
trees  in  the  park,  in  honor  of  Lady  Davenant's 
arrival. 

The  walking  party  had  not  yet  returned,  and 
Rose  (for  we  are  forced  for  the  time  being  so  to 
call  her)  found  her  faithful  friend  Bessie  wait- 
ing for  her  in  a  perfect  fever  of  curiosity  and 
suspense. 

"  Well,  Rose,  is  she — I  mean,  what  is  she  like? 
What  does  she  say  ?  " 

Rose  had  thrown  herself  on  the  scat  near  the 
Avindow,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
burst  into  an  acronv  of  tears.     Poor  Bessie  stood 


136  Rosemary. 

looking  at  her  with  something  of  that  eager 
wistful  look  which  we  see  in  attached  dogs 
when  some  one  they  love  is  crying. 

"  O  dear  me,  dear  me  !  do  tell  me  about  it. 
The  girls  will  be  home  directly,  and  we  may 
not  have,  for  ever  so  long,  an  opportunity  of 
talking." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  or  to  think,  or  to 
feel,"  Rose  passionately  exclaimed.  "  She  has 
no  doubt  of  my  being  her  child — she  is  kind- 
ness itself.  She  is  going  to  take  me  away  in 
three  days." 

"  O  dear !  O  dear !  I  thought  it  would  be  so, 
but  go  on,"  poor  Bessie  said  ;  "  I  don't  mind,  if 
only  you  are  happy,  and  it's  all  right." 

"  But  that's  just  what  it  isn't,  all  right.  I 
don't  feel  a  bit  as  if  she  were  my  mother.  My 
heart  does  not  warm  toward  her,  and  I  am 
afraid  of  the  life  she  holds  out  in  prospect  to 
me.  The  world,  the  Court,  gayety,  pleasure ; 
not  one  word  did  she  say  about — " 

"About  what?" 

"  About  being  good,  and  God,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.     O  Bessie,  what  shall   I   do  ?     I 


Rosemary.  137 

have  no  one  to  advise  me ;  if  only  I  could  see 
Joan  !  I  know  what  I  shall  do;  I  will  write  and 
beg  her  to  come  here  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
I  wonder  if  she  could  get  my  letter  in  time  ? 
The  carrier  will  take  it  to-morrow  morning  to 
London,  and  post  it  there.  I  am  afraid,  unless 
it  went  by  private  hand,  she  would  not  get  it 
for  two  days,  and  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Dimple  will 
not  help  me  to  send  it.  I  want  to  know  if  I 
ought  to  tell  Lady  Davenant  about  Mrs.  Yates 
thinking  that  I  am  her  child — I  don't  know  if 
it  would  be  right  or  wrong — and  also  that  I 
want  to  be  a  Catholic.  I  was  in  a  mortal  fright 
lest  Mrs.  Dimple  should  speak  about  my  cross. 
It  is  like  being  a  hypocrite  to  be  kissing  Lady 
Davenant,  and  thanking  her,  and  all  the  time 
saying  to  myself,  '  I  don't  believe  you  are  my 
mother.'  Not  but  that  I  ought  to  thank  her, 
for  she  has  had  me  brought  up  all  this  time  as 
if  I  were  her  daughter,  and  paid  for  my  board 
and  schoohng.  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  tell 
her?" 

"  But  if  she  is  your  mother,  it  will  be  unduti- 
ful  in  you  to  go  and  say  you  don't  think  so,  and 


138  Rosemary. 

it  will  make  her  hate  you,  perhaps ;  and  it  is 

only  Joan  and  those  dirty  bits  of  paper  that  say 

so.     If  I  were  you,  I'd  make  up  my  mind  she 

is,  and  then  you'll  love  her  directly,  and  be  very 

happy." 

"  No,  I  shall  never  be  happy  that  way ;  bi>t 

perhaps  you  are  right,  and  that  I  had  better 

not  speak  of  my  doubts  till  I  am  sure  I  ought 

to  do  so.      Well,   I'll   say  nothing  now.      I'll 

go  away  with  her  on  Thursday ;  be  very  good 

and  quiet,  and  talk  very   little  ;   only  kiss  her 

when  she  kisses  me,  and  so  on.     Then,  when 

we  are  in  London,  I  shall  ask  her  to  let  me 

ride  in  her  coach  to  Paddington,  to  see  Mrs. 

Coggle  and  Joan.     As  she  is  so  rich,  she  must 

have  plenty  of  horses  and  servants ;  and  then, 

if  only  I  can  see  Joan,  I  shall  know  what  to 

do." 

At  that  moment  Lady  Davenant  came  into 

the  class-room  to  take  another  farewell  of  her 

daughter,  spoke  o^  the  feast  she  was  going  to 

give  1  o  her  dear  Rose's  school-fellows,  asked  if 

Bessie  was  her  favorite  companion,  and  invited 

her  to  spend  the  next  holidays  at  her  house. 


Rosemary.  139 

This  kindness  went  to  the  hearts  of  the  two 
girls,  and  when  the  door  was  closed  upon  her, 
Bessie  exclaimed, 

"  Now,  Rose,  if  that  is  not  the  best  and  kind- 
est mother  that  any  one  could  wish  to  have ! 
If  I  were  )^ou,  I  would  throw  away  all  those 
scraps  of  letters  which  mean  nothing  at  all,  and 
let  old  Joan  Porter  sa}'-  what  she  likes  about 
INIrs.  Yates.  Do  you  stick  to  Lady  Davenant, 
whom  I  declare  is  the  handsomest  and  best- 
spoken  lady  in  the  world.  And  what  fun  we 
shall  have  in  the  holidays !  I  was  to  have  spent 
them,  as  usual,  in  this  dull,  hateful  house.  I 
can't  think  how  such  a  piece  of  luck  has  come 
to  me." 

"  Don't  make  too  sure  of  this  prospect,  dear 
Bess,"  Rose  said,  somewhat  sadly,  "and  don't 
call  this  house  hateful.  We  have  known  many 
a  happy  hour  under  these  old  trees,  been  care- 
fully and  tenderly  nursed  in  sickness,  and  shel- 
tered from  man}'  a  temptation  by  the  care  we 
have  had  here." 

"  O  yes ;    you    think    of    that    because    you 


140  Rosemary. 

are  going  away.  You  forget  the  tasks,  the 
punishments,  the  scoldings,  and  all  the  tor- 
ments of  school.  You  are  a  very  happy  girl 
now." 

Rose's  heart  swelled.  She  had  few  friends, 
and  the  friend  of  her  school  days,  the  only  one 
of  her  own  age  she  cared  for,  proved  herself 
utterly  incapable  of  understanding,  not  only  the 
extent,  but  the  nature  of  her  sufferings.  It  was 
a  relief  to  her  that  the  return  of  the  other  girls 
just  then  interrupted  their  conversation ;  but 
she  had  soon  to  endure  the  shouts  of  dehght 
which  followed  the  announcement  of  the  whole 
holiday,  granted  at  Ladv  Davenant's  request, 
and  could  not  escape  the  flood  of  questions, 
exclamations,  and  congratulations  which  fol- 
lowed. There  is  not  a  more  painful  feeling 
than  that  of  being  the  object  of  envy  to  all 
around,  us  when  we  are  oppressed  with  a  grief 
or  an  anxiety  which  cannot  be  disclosed. 
When  her  head  was  laid  on  the  pillow,  and 
silence  and  darkness  spread  their  soothing 
influence  over  her  soul,  then  did  those  words 


Rosemary.  141 

which  had  comforted  her  on  the  first  night 
she  had  spent  in  that  house  return  to  her 
mind,  like  a  whisper  from  her  guardian 
angel : 

"  Let  nothing  trouble  thee. 
Let  nothing  affright  thee; 
All  things  pass  away. 
God  never  changes." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DAVENANT   HOUSE. 

The  house  in  London  which  had  belonged  to 
Mr.  Mordaunt,  and  had  once  more  come  into 
Lady  Davenant's  possession,  was  now  furnished 
and  adorned  in  a  costly  manner.  It  was  agree- 
ably situated  not  far  from  the  Temple  Buildings, 
facing  the  river,  and  with  a  garden  sloping  to 
its  banks.  The  drive  from  Richmond  in  a 
coach-and-four,  the  arrival  at  this  mansion, 
which  surpassed  in  splendor  anything  she  had 
ever  witnessed,  the  liveried  servants  in  the  hall, 
and  the  whole  aspect  of  her  future  abqde,  filled 
with  amazement  the  young  girl  so  suddenly 
introduced  into  a  scene  of  such  comfort  and 
luxury.  The  dreamlike  feeling  this  transition 
produced  was  increased  when  Lady  Davenant, 
after  leading  her  through  the  reception  rooms, 
conducted  her  dear  Rose  to  what  she  said  was 
to  be  her  own  room.  She  had  never  had  one  of 
her  own  before. 


Rosemary.  143 

Joan  Porter's  ding-y  bedchamber  at  Padding- 
ton  and  the  dormitory  at  school  were  her  only 
conceptions  of  a  sleeping-  apartment,  and  now 
she  was  actually  given  to  understand  that  this 
stately  chamber,  with  its  canopied  bed,  its  gilt 
mirrors,  its  high-backed  chairs,  its  toilet-table, 
its  wardrobe,  and  its  two  windows  with  seats, 
which  overlooked  the  garden  and  the  river, 
was  actually  her  own.  It  seemed  like  a  new 
world,  and  she  was  glad  when  Lady  Davenant 
went  away  and  she  found  herself  alone,  free  to 
muse  on  her  position  and  collect  her  agitated 
thoughts.  It  was  some  time  before  she  could 
bring  them  into  any  shape.  Was  this,  the 
splendor,  the  brightness  which  suddenly  sur- 
rounded her,  a  dream  ?  or  was  this  the  reality, 
and  those  remembrances  of  the  past — those 
tidings,  few  and  far  between,  rare  as  angels' 
visits,  from  within  the  walls  of  a  prison,  of 
another  mother  than  the  one  that  now  claimed 
her — an  unearthly  vision  then  fading  away  in 
darkness  and  oblivion  ?  If  only  she  could  feel 
toward  Lady  Davenant  as  a  child  toward  a 
parent !     Perhaps  she  might  arrive  at  it  in  time, 


144  Rosemary. 

especially  if  Joan  Porter  encouraged  her  to  do 
so,  and  would  let  her  give  up  thinking  of  Mrs. 
Yates.  "  If  I  were  to  give  her  back  this  cross 
and  these  letters,  and  try  to  believe  I  am  Lady 
Davenant's  daughter?"  But  no  sooner  did 
this  idea  cross  her  mind  than  she  burst  into 
tears,  kisced  the  little  crucifix,  read  over  the 
letters,  and  felt  all  the  old  feelings  of  reverence 
for  the  Catholic  religion  and  her  Catholic 
mother,  which  Joan  had  instilled  into  her,  re- 
asserting their  power.  There  was  a  prie-dieu 
in  one  corner  of  the  room,  with  a  finely-bound 
Book  of  Common  Prayer  lying  on  it.  She 
quietly  displaced  the  volume,  laid  her  cross  on 
the  velvet  cushion,  fetched  from  the  chimney 
two  vases  full  of  flowers,  and  placed  them  on 
each  side  of  it,  in  remembrance  of  what  she 
had  seen  in  the  chapels  she  used  to  go  to  with 
Joan.  There  she  knelt  down,  and  whilst  gaz- 
ing on  the  nailed  hands  and  pierced  feet  and 
thorn-crowned  brow  of  her  Divine  Lord,  she 
felt  an  irresistible  gush  of  tender  yearning  for 
the  parent  who  for  so  many  years  had  been 
praying  for  her,  as  one  of  her  short  letters  said, 


Rosemary.  145 

that  she  might  alwa3-s  be  a  true  child  of  God's 
Church. 

A  noise  in  the  passage  interrupted  this  train 
of  thought.  A  waiting-woman  appeared,  sent 
by  her  ladyship  to  assist  Miss  Davenant  to 
dress.  The  heavenly  dream  faded  away.  The 
earthly  reality  resumed  its  power.  It  was 
pleasant  to  be  attired  in  beautiful  clothes,  and 
to  be  told  how  admirably  they  became  her ;  and 
that  the  yellow  silk  gown,  which  would  have 
ill  suited  Lady  Davenant's  fair  hair  and  florid 
complexion,  set  off  quite  marvellously  her 
daughter's  different  style  of  beauty.  The  result 
of  the  waiting-woman's  labor  was  highly  suc- 
cessful, and  her  mistress's  smile  of  pleasure 
when  Rose  came  into  the  drawing-room  showed 
how  pleased  she  was  with  the  result. 

Guests  came  to  dinner,  and  were  presented 
to  the  young  lady  of  the  house.  Each  time 
that  Lady  Davenant  said  "  My  daughter "  a 
painful  sensation  came  over  the  so-called  Rose. 
It  seemed  so  false  to  accept-this  position  and  ?b 
receive  compliments  which  an  inward  voice  in 
her  heart  protested  she    was   not   entitled    to. 


146  Rosemary. 

Her  silence  and  her  blushes  were  ascribed  to 
the  novelty  of  the  scene  and  an  excess  of  charm- 
ing timidity,  which  in  one  so  beautiful  only 
enhanced  her  girlish  attractions. 

Amongst  Lady  Davenant's  visitors  that  day 
was  a  young  gentleman,  the  expectant  heir  of 
a  large  fortune,  who  had  been  brought  to  her 
house  by  his  father.  Sir  Mark  Le  Gra'nge,  for 
the  express  purpose  of  making  the  acquaint- 
ance of  that  lady's  only  daughter.  Sir  Mark 
and  Lady  Davenant  had  met  in  Paris  when  she 
was  on  her  way  home  from  Montpellier,  and 
the  subject  of  a  marriage  between  his  son  ^nd 
her  daughter  had  been  broached.  The  match 
appeared  on  both  sides  highly  desirable.  Sir 
Mark  had  large  landed  estates,  and  Lady  Dav- 
enant was  prepared  to  give  her  daughter  an 
ample  dowry.  Parents,  when  they  agreed  on  a 
project  of  this  sort,  did  not  anticipate,  in  those 
days,  much  opposition  on  the  part  of  their 
children,  and  it  was  not  in  this  instance  likely 
that  the  young  gentleman  would  object  to  so 
fair  a  bride  as  his  father  had  selected  for  him 
or  the  young  lady  to  the  handsome  and  amiabi 


Rosemary.  147 

youth  her  mother  had  chosen  for  her  future 
husband.  Lady  Davenant,  had,  however,  stip- 
ulated that  Rose  should  not  be  married  for 
one  3^ear  after  leaving  school,  and  in  the  mean- 
time Mr.  Le  Grange  was  to  travel  on  the  Con- 
tinent and  improve  his  knowledge  of  foreign 
languages.  A  previous  interview  was,  however, 
to  take  place,  and  the  day  assigned  for  it  was  that 
which  followed  Lad}^  Davenant's  return  to  Lon- 
don. On  the  morrow  Mr.  Le  Grange  was  to  go 
abroad.  His  eyes  were  well  satisfied  with  the 
face  and  figure  of  the  young  lady  proposed  to 
him  as  a  wife,  but  it  was  not  till  after  dinner, 
during  a  walk  in  St.  James's  Park,  that  he  had 
an  opportunity  of  conversing  with  her.  What 
they  said  to  each  other  is  not  much  to  the  pur- 
pose. It  was  probably  nothing  very  striking 
or  brilliant,  but  that  a  mutual  satisfaction  was 
felt  in  the  exchange  of  those  few  words  was 
evident.  Something  in  Miss  Davenant's  counte- 
nance and  manner,  and  in  her  timid  answers  to 
the  remarks  he  made,  caused  Mr.  Le  Grange 
inwardly  to  rejoice  that  his  father  had  chosen 
for  him  better  than  he  could  have  chosen  for 


148  Rosemary. 

himself,  and  she  was  of  opinion  that  although  he 
was  the  only  young  man  she  had  ever  conversed 
with,  a  more  courteous  and  agreeable  one  could 
not  exist.  The  park  was  full  that  day  of  gay 
company.  There  was  music  under  the  trees 
and  there  were  games  on  the  lawn.  The  even- 
ing breeze,  after  a  hot  day,  felt  refreshing  and 
sweet,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  cheerful  scene 
and  pleasant  society  Rose  began  again  to  doubt 
if  she  was  bound  to  break  the  web  that  was  encir- 
cling her  round.  The  next  day  it  seemed  to  be 
hemming  her  in  yet  more  closel}^  for  Lady  Dav- 
enant  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  an3'thing  she 
disliked  in  the  person  or  the  manners  of  the 
young  Mr.  Le  Grange ;  and  on  her  answering 
by  a  blushing  negative,  said  she  was  glad,  and 
hoped  that  she  would  not  object  to  obhge  her 
by  accepting  him  as  a  husband,  and  at  the  same 
time  assured  her  that  nothing  could  exceed  the 
favorable  impression  she  had  made  on  the  young 
gentleman  as  well  as  on  his  father.  This  was  all 
very  perplexing.  Events  were  crowding  into 
the  new  sphere  in  which  she  had  entered,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  she  was  losing  her  footing,  and  was 


Rosemary.  149 

carried  on  against  her  will  into  a  course  of  du- 
plicity. Silence  was  everj^  moment  binding  her, 
in  a  certain  sense,  to  her  present  position  as 
Lady  Davenant's  daughter,  and  made  a  subse- 
quent explanation  more  difficult.  She  felt  it 
absolutely  necessary  to  make  an  effort  to  see 
Joan  Porter;  yet  at  that  moment  her  courage 
to  seek  that  interview  almost  failed  her.  The 
hours  that  had  elapsed  since  her  arrival  in  Lon- 
don had  displayed  before  her  all  the  attractions 
of  the  world,  and  the  promenade  in  St.  James's 
Park  left  an  impression  on  her  mind,  if  not  on 
her  heart,  which  the  knowledge  she  had  acquired 
of  its  relation  to  her  future  destiny  had  not 
tended  to  weaken.  Everything  combined  to 
lend  an  irresistible  charm  to  her  present  posi- 
tion ;  everything  except  a  sense  of  security  and 
the  approval  of  her  conscience.  However,  the 
very  desire  to  put  an  end  to  these  painful  doubts, 
and  make  sure  of  her  brilliant  prospects,  made 
her  feel  the  necessity  of  bringing  the  matter  to 
an  issue,  and  at  last  she  summoned  resolution  to 
ask  Lady  Davenant  if  she  might  go  and  call  on 
her  old  friends.     No  objection  was  made  on  that 


1 50  Rosemary. 

Iad3''s  part.  She  was  expecting  visits  and  did 
not  intend  to  drive  out  herself  that  day,  but 
said  that  Rose  should  take  an  airing,  and  might 
go  to  Paddington  as  well  as  anywhere  else. 
The  coach  was  ordered  after  dinner,  and  a 
w^aiting-woman  appointed  to  accompany  Miss 
Davenant  to  the  cottage  where  she  had  spent 
her  childhood  and  her  holidays  whilst  at 
school.  Mrs.  Coggle  was  pleased  and  sur- 
prised to  see  a  fine  equipage  stop  at  her  door, 
and  did  not  at  first  see  who  was  inside  of  it. 
But  when  the  )'Oung  lady  sprang  out,  and 
running  into  the  house,  came  into  the  parlor 
and  affectionately  saluted  her,  she  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  surprise,  not  unmixed  with 
consternation. 

"  How  is  Joan  ?  "  was  her  visitor's  first  ques- 
tion. 

"Not  by  any  means  well.  Miss  Davenant; 
much  the  reverse ;  indeed  she  is  exceedingly 
sick,  and  has  not  left  her  bed  for  several 
weeks." 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  amiss  that 
she   did   not   come    to    Richmond.      I    am    so 


Rosemary.  151 

^/ieved — my  own  dear  good  Joan.  I  will  go 
up  at  once  to  her,  Coggy." 

"  Stop  a  bit,  mistress ;  stop  a  bit.  With  whom 
have  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  With  Lady  Davenant's  waiting-woman,  and 
in  her  coach.  She  carried  me  away  from  school 
yesterday  and  brought  me  to  her  house  in 
town." 

"  You  had  better  not  go  upstairs  then,  my 
dear ;  and  indeed,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  get 
into  the  coach  again  and  go  back  to  w^here  you 
came  from." 

"  Without  seeing  Joan — my  own  dear  Joan, 
and  she  so  sick  too  !  What  can  you  be  thinking 
of,  Coggy  ?  " 

"  More  than  you  know  of,"  was  the  oracular 
answer.  Then,  in  an  emphatic  whisper,  "  There 
is  some  one  upstairs  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Yates  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  INIiss  Davenant,  her  very  self." 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  past  and 
its  memories,  the  present  and  its  complications, 
the  future  and  its  possibilities,  concentrate  them- 
selves in  our  minds  with  a  startlino-  clearness 


152  Rosemary. 

and  an  almost  intolerable  keenness.  Such  was 
the  instant  in  which  Rose  or  Mary,  whichever 
she  was,  heard  the  announcement  that  the  per- 
son whom  Joan  had  always  told  her  was  her 
mother  actually  was  in  the  house,  and  that  in 
another  instant  she  should  see  her.  The  whole 
importance  of  this  crisis  in  her  fate  rushed  upon 
her.  The  very  excess  of  feeling  seemed  to 
paralyze  feeling.  She  stood  for  a  while  motion- 
less, as  if  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  with  the 
consciousness  that  the  next  step  she  took  would 
lead  to  safety  or  destruction.  It  was  still  in  her 
power  to  follow  Mrs.  Goggle's  advice ;  to  -leave 
the  house,  get  into  the  coach,  where  the  lady's- 
maid  was  waiting  for  her,  drive  back  to  Dav- 
enant  House,  assume  once  for  all,  in  heart  as  in 
appearance,  the  position  she  occupied  there,  and 
turn  a  deaf  ear  to  all  suggestions  to  the  con- 
trary. That  was  one  obvious  course,  and  a 
tempting  one  to  the  weak  side  of  a  young  girl's 
heart.  She  saw  in  it  a  most  alluring  vista  of 
enjoyment  and  of  future  happiness ;  nor  was  it 
unnatural,  under  the  circumstances,  that  the 
image  of  the  young  gentleman  who  had  taken 


Rosemary.  153 

such  pains  to  insure  a  favorable  reception  for 
the  intelligence  that  had  been  communicated  to 
her  a  few  hours  ago,  should  be  mixed  up  in  that 
rapid  review  of  the  importance  of  the  ensuing 
hour  to  the  whole  course  of  her  life.  This  very- 
fact,  however,  armed  her  against  her  own  weak- 
ness. Truth,  fidelity,  and  conscience  cried  out 
against  the  suggestions  of  selfishness  and  vanity, 
and  the  influence  of  a  recent  fancy.  With  the 
doubt  in  her  heart,  if,  indeed,  it  could  be  called 
a  doubt  as  to  her  birth,  could  she  at  once  accept 
as  her  mother  the  gay,  the  wealthy  Lady  Dav- 
enant,  and  forsake  Mrs.  Yates  in  her  poverty 
and  sorrow  ?  Could  she,  a  Catholic — for  never 
had  she  in  her  heart  denied  her  faith — throw  in 
her  lot  amongst  Protestants,  when  she  still 
could  hope  to  be  the  child  of  a  Catholic  ?  No, 
she  would  not,  she  could  not  choose  the  crown 
of  flowers  and  refuse  the  crown  of  thorns.  In 
one  of  Mrs.  Yates's  letters  allusion  had  been 
made  to  this  choice  once  offered  to  a  saint.  It 
came  to  her  mind  then,  as  so  many  things  do 
in  the  course  of  a  minute ;  she  thought  also 
of  some  words  she  had  read  in  a  French  book 


1 54  Rosemary. 

at  school,  and  had  told  Bessie  Fairchild  she 
would  take  as  her  motto,  "  Fais  ce  que  dois, 
advienne  que  pourra,"  and  leaving  Mrs.  Coggle 
in  a  very  agitated  state,  she  slowly  but  stead- 
ily walked  up  the  stairs  leading  to  Joan's 
room. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

JOAN  porter's  room. 

The  door  of  the  sick-chamber  was  open,  and 
this  was  the  pictuie  that  met  the  visitor's  eyes. 
Her  dear  old  friend  was  lying  on  the  bed,  with 
the  hue  of  death  on  her  face,  a  calm,  holy  expres- 
sion enlightening  her  plain,  homely  features,  and 
a  crucifix  in  her  hands,  on  which  her  eyes  fixed 
themselves  with  unspeakable  love.  By  her  side 
sat  one  who  had  undergone  much  sorrow ;  one 
who,  though  not  old  in  years,  was  wan  and  gray- 
haired  ;  one  dressed  in  a  rusty  black  dress,  that 
hung  loosely  about  her  emaciated  form.  But 
O,  that  woman's  face  !  What  a  strange,  heavenly 
beauty  was  shining  in  its  faded  lineaments — the 
beauty  of  a  soul  that  had  fought  its  way  to  peace 
through  many  tribulations.  Her  eyes  were  the 
very  counterpart  of  the  eyes  which  were  at  that 
moment  brimming  full  of  tears — those  of  the 
young  girl  who  stood  at  the  threshold  of  that 


156  Rosemary. 

sick  chamber.  They  were  the  same  in  color, 
the  same  in  expression,  the  same  in  melting  ten- 
derness. They  looked  at  each  other — that 
woman  and  that  girl.  In  the  pale  cheeks  of  the 
one  a  faint  color  rose,  whilst  a  deep  flush  over- 
spread the  face  and  brow  of  the  other.  Joan 
had  glanced  at  the  door,  and  an  exclamation 
burst  from  her  lips. 

"  Polly  !  "  she  cried ;  "  your  Polly  !  " 

Mrs.  Yates  stood  up  trembling,  restrained 
from  moving  by  the  timidity  of  intense  feeling. 
In  another  moment  Joan  felt  her  darling's  arms 
round  her  neck,  her  tears  falling  on  her  face,  and 
words  of  love  breathed  in  her  ears. 

"  Stop,  dear,  stop,"  Joan  whispered.  "  Don't 
think  of  me  now.  That's  your  mother ;  kneel, 
and  ask  her  blessing." 

Mrs.  Yates  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
prayed  inwardly  for  composure. 

Poll}' — in  Joan  Porter's  room  we  cannot  call 
her  Rose — again  threw  her  arms  round  Joan, 
and  said, 

"  Are  you  certain  she  is  my  mother?" 

"  Polly,  dear,  on  the  crucifix  i  swear  she  is," 


Rosemary.  157 

was  the  old  woman's  reply,  and  she  laid  her 
shrivelled  hand  on  the  sacred  image. 

The  next  moment  Mrs.  Yates  was  pressing- 
to  her  heart  her  Mary,  and  thanking  God  for 
her  recovered  treasure.  But  quickly  subduing 
her  emotion,  she  said, 

"  Dear  child,  you  are  dressed  like  the  daughter 
of  wealthy  parents.  You  have  been  acknowl- 
edged and  claimed,  I  hear,  by  one  who  believes 
herself  to  be  your  mother.  Is  it  from  her  house 
you  come? " 

"  Yes,  and  she  is  very  kind  to  me.  But  I 
never  felt  as  if  I  was  her  child.  And  now 
even  if  Joan  was  not  so  sure  of  it,  I  knozv  I 
am  yours.  I  know  it,  mother;  I  feel  it — 
deep,  deep  in  my  heart.  O,  put  your  hand 
on  my  head  and  bless  me.  Mother,  I  love 
3^ou." 

Who  can  measure  the  joy  of  the  woman's 
heart  who  recovers  her  child  ?  What  must 
heaven  be  if  earth  has  hours  of  such  ecstasy  as 
filled  the  soul  of  that  mother  who.  after  years 
of  patient  endurance,  had  her  meed  when  she 
heard   those  words  from   her  daughter's  lips? 


158  Rosei7tary. 

But  one  thought  above  all  others  was  upper- 
most even  then.  She  subdued  her  emotion. 
She  looked  earnestly  at  the  agitated  face  of  the 
young  girl,  and  said, 

"  Mary,  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  Catholic 
in  this  country.  You  know  that  I  have  no  home 
to  offer  you  but  a  poor  garret,  where  I  work  for 
my  bread  since  I  came  out  of  prison.  Are  you 
prepared  to  share  ray  poverty — to  lead  the  life 
our  Blessed  Lord  and  His  Holy  Mother  led  on 
earth,  and  serve  God  together  in  a  Catholic 
manner,  even  unto  suffering  persecution  for 
justice'  sake  ?  " 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  Ruth-like  expres- 
sion with  which  the  answer  to  this  question 
was  given. 

"  I  am  prepared,  mother,  to  live,  to  suffer, 
and  to  die  with  you."  Then  she  drew  from  her 
bosom  the  crucifix  which  had  been  to  her  the 
visible  symbol  of  her  faith  and  the  memorial  of 
her  absent  mother  since  the  day  when  she 
remembered  Joan's  first  teaching  her  to  kiss  it. 
Mrs.  Yates's  tears  flowed  more  freely  at  the 
sight  of  that  little  cross  than  they  had  yet  done, 


Rosemary.  159 

and  for  a  while  little  was  said  by  any  one  in  that 
room  that  could  be  written  down  ;  nothing  but 
prayers  and  loving  exclamations,  mingled  with 
kisses  and  broken  sobs. 

At  last  Mrs.  Goggle  came  upstairs,  and  with 
a  vague  sense  that  something  was  going  on  in 
Joan's  room  to  which  she  did  not  wish  to  be  a 
party  one  way  or  the  other,  she  stood  outside 
the  door  and  said, 

"  The  lady  that  is  in  the  coach  says  it  is  get- 
ting late  and  beginning  to  rain,  and  wishes 
Miss  Davenant  to  know  that  her  mamma  will 
be  soon  wanting  her  at  home." 

This  message  broke  the  charm  of  the  first 
moments  of  recognition,  and  awoke  Mrs.  Yates 
and  her  daughter  to  the  difficulties  of  their 
position.  Neither  of  them  had  the  shadow  of 
a  doubt  as  to  the  fact  of  their  relationship,  but 
how  to  establish  it,  how  to  state  it  to  Lady 
Davenant,  how  to  act  if  she  refused  to  listen  to 
them,  was  bej'ond  their  power  at  that  moment 
to  conceive.  They  were,  in  truth,  three  very 
helpless  creatures — a  poor  dying  woman,  a 
friendless  one  just  liberated  from  a  lon^  impris- 


l6o  Rosemary. 

onment,  and  one  who  three  days  before  was  a 
mere  school-girl. 

"Must  I  go?  must  I  leave  you,  mother?  I 
will  do  what  you  tell  me." 

Mrs.  Yates  thought,  or  rather  prayed,  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  "  I  know  not  how  to 
proceed,  save  by  simply  speaking  the  truth,  and 
leaving  to  God  the  rest.  I  know  but  of  one 
friend  in  the  world  who  would,  perhaps,  help 
me  to  convince  Lady  Davenant.  That  is  Sir 
Mark  Le  Grange,  by  whose  means,  through 
dear  Joan's  recourse  to  him,  I  got  out  of  prison. 

Mary,  for  so  we  must  now  call  her,  blushed 
at  the  mention  of  Sir  Mark's  name.  She  had 
told  Mrs.  Yates  of  her  removal  from  school  to 
London  and  of  the  kindness  of  Lady  Davenant, 
but  had  not  adverted  to  an  incident  of  the  last 
eventful  days  which  might  have  made  her  feel 
as  if  some  sort  of  sacrifice  besides  that  of  a 
wealthy  parentage  had  been  made  by  her  child. 

"  Have  you  courage,"  Mrs.  Yates  asked,  "  to 
go  back  to  Lady  Davenant  and  tell  her  the 
whole  truth?" 

"  More  courage  than  to  spend  another  day  in 


Rosemary.  1 6 1 

her  house  without  doing  so.  Perhaps  she  will 
be  quite  willing  to  give  me  up  to  you  when  she 
hears  what  no  one  has  yet  told  her." 

"  I  did  write  to  her  more  than  once,"  Joan 
said,  in  a  feeble  voice.  "  It  took  me  many  hours 
each  time,  and  a  heavy  postage  besides.  But 
my  letters  never  do  reach  them  as  they  are 
written  to." 

This  was  not  very  unaccountable,  considering 
the  peculiarities  of  Joan's  spelling  and  her  ideas 
of  geography.  The  letters  to  Lady  Davenant 
had  been  directed  to  "  Mount  Pellew,  beyond 
seas,"  and  were,  no  doubt,  lying  at  some  post- 
office  in  a  seaport  town  of  France  or  Belgium. 

"  If  Lady  Davenant  should  be  angry,  and 
refuse  to  believe  or  examine  into  what  I  shall 
tell  her,  how  shall  I  act,  dear  mother?" 

"  You  must  then  be  patient  and  wait,  my 
loved  one.  I  have  a  firm  trust  that  God  will 
make  manifest  the  truth,  so  that  we  shall  not 
be  forever  parted.  My  Mary,  I  would  offer, 
when  once  truth  and  justice  are  satisfied  b}'  a 
statement  of  the  real  facts  to  that  good  lady,  to 
resign  you  to  her,  if  such  should  be  her  wish  and 


1 62  Rosemary. 

yours.  But  I  dare  not  do  so,  for  I  know  that 
the  interests  of  your  soul  would  be  in  danger. 
She  can  give  you  everything  this  world  can 
bestow.  For  a  few  years  she  can  make  your 
life  a  round  of  pleasure,  but  when  this  brief 
space  of  time  is  passed,  what  will  wealth  and 
pleasure  then  avail?  O  my  child,  what  shall  a 
man  give  in  exchange  for  his  soul?  " 

"  Mother,  my  mind  is  made  up.  Nothing  but 
force  or  3^our  own  commands  shall  keep  me 
apart  from  you.  You  know  I  have  loved  you 
since  I  could  speak,  and  that  I  have  never 
believed  I  was  Lady  Davenant's  daughter." 

"  She  will  be  as  bad  as  the  woman  who 
wanted  to  cut  the  child  in  two,"  Joan  ejaculated, 
"  if  she  does  not  give  you  back  to  your  own 
mother,  and  she  just  come  out  of  prison  !  Tell 
her  a  dying  woman  says  so." 

"  No,  no,  dear  Joan,"  Mrs.  Yates  whispered. 
"  Judge  not  hardly  of  her ;  she  may  well 
struggle  against  the  truth  that  takes  away  from 
her  her  life's  joy." 

"  I  don't  think  one  bit  that  she  cares  that 
much  about   Polly.     Why  did   she   not   come 


Rosemary.  1 62, 

from  France  long  ago  for  to  see  her,  if  she  had 
a  mother's  heart  ?  But  God  forgive  her  and  me 
too,  if  I  am  wanting  in  charity.  But  you  see, 
Mrs.  Yates,  I  have  had  to  fight  a  battle  with 
her  all  through,  though  she  did  not  know  it." 

Another  knock,  and  Mrs.  Goggle's  voice  at 
the  door  startled  them  all.  This  time  she  put 
in  her  head  and  said, 

"  The  lady  in  the  coach  is  half  demented  with 
impatience  ;  she  says  her  lady  will  be  out  of  her 
mind  if  she  is  not  at  home  in  time  to  dress  her 
for  the  play." 

Roused  by  this  second  warning,  Mrs.  Yates 
and  her  daughter  rose  hastily. 

"  See,  my  child,"  the  former  said,  "  this  is  a 
letter  I  wrote  last  night  to  Lady  Davenant- 
Give  it  to  her  at  a  favorable  moment,  and  await 
what  she  will  say.  If  she  shows  herself  willing 
to  examine  into  the  truth  of  what  I  have  writ- 
ten, and  is  not  angered  by  it,  then  show  her  this 
medallion,  which  contains  ni}-  picture  when  I 
was  about  your  present  age.  The  likeness  to 
yourself  is  so  great  that  I  think  it  would  carry 
conviction  to  any  mind  fairly  inclined." 


1 64  Rosemary. 

"  And  tell  her,"  Joan  added,  "  that  a  Christian 
woman,  now  on  her  death-bed,  is  ready  to  take 
her  oath  before  she  goes  to  meet  her  Judge  that 
you  are  Mary  Yates,  whom  we  always  called 
Polly." 

Thus  armed,  thus  instructed,  and  thus  blest 
by  two  anxious,  loving  hearts,  Mary  went  her 
way.  The  waiting-woman  was  loud  in  her 
complaints  of  the  length  of  the  visit,  and  ex- 
pressed fears  of  her  mistress's  displeasure. 
Lady  Davenant  was  indeed  seated  at  her  toilet 
table  when  they  arrived,  and  company  waiting 
in  the  drawing-room  to  accompan}^  her  to  the 
play.  She  did  not,  however,  show  any  ill-humor 
to  her  dear  Rose,  and  asked  if  she  would  like  to 
accompany  her  to  the  theatre.  But  when  she 
prayed  to  be  excused  on  the  score  of  a  headache, 
which  was  indeed  no  counterfeit,  she  readily 
consented  to  her  staying  at  home,  and  advised 
her  to  lie  down  and  entertain  herself  with  the 
translation  of  the  great  "  Cyrus,"  Mdlle.  de 
Scudery's  last  romance. 

"  To-morrow,"  she  added,  "  I  am  to  sit  early 
for  my  picture,  and  then  shall  have  twenty  visits 


Rosemary.  165 

to  return.  You  are  paler  than  when  you  went 
out  to-day,"  she  remarked.  "  The  air  of  Pad- 
dington  has  done  you  no  good.  If  your  com- 
plexion is  habitually  so  pale,  you  must  wear 
rouge.  I  will  show  3'ou  m3-self  how  to  put  it 
on.  Poor  little  Rose,"  she  said,  kissing  her  fore- 
head, "  we  must  make  you  a  damask  rose — not 
so  poor  a  white  one  as  you  look  to-day." 

All  this  was  very  kind  ;  but  fresh  from  the 
atmosphere  of  Joan's  room,  Mary  Yates  felt  an 
emotion  of  joy  at  the  thought  that  this  gay 
and  lovely  lady,  amiable  and  charming  as  she 
was,  was  not  her  mother. 

It  was  not  till  the  next  day  was  far  advanced 
that  an  opportunity  offered  for  the  performance 
of  the  duty  which  she  had  to  discharge.  When 
at  last  she  found  herself  alone  with  Lady  Dav- 
enant,  each  occupied  with  some  light  fancy 
work,  she  said  to  herself,  "  Now  or  never ;  it 
must  be  done  ;  "  and  drawing  Mrs.  Yates's  letter 
from  her  bosom,  she  presented  it  to  her  with 
these  words : 

"  Madam,  a  lady  whom  I  saw  yesterday  at 
Paddington  begged  me  to  give  this  letter  into 


1 66  Rosemary. 

your  hands.  It  contains  somewhat  of  great 
consequence  to  you,  dear  lady,  and  to  my  poor 
self.     Will  you  read  it?" 

"  Good  heavens,  child  !  What's  the  matter? 
Your  heart  seems  very  full.  Tears  !  Poor  lit- 
tle soul !     What  can  it  be  all  about?" 

"  You  will  know,  dear  madam,  when  you  have 
read  that  letter." 

Lady  Davenant  broke  the  seal  and  glanced 
at  the  signature. 

"  Mary  Yates !  that  is  the  name  of  the  widow 
of  poor  George  Yates !  Sir  Mark  Le  Grange 
told  me  yesterday  she  was  released  from  prison 
through  his  efforts.  How  came  you  to  have 
been  charged  with  this  letter,  Rose?" 

"  Read  it,  madam,  and  you  will  see  how 
nearly  it  concerns  me." 

"  Concerns  you  ?  I  should  like  to  know  what 
can  concern  a  child  like  you,  except  some  new 
trinkets,  or  a  school-fellow's  visit.  By  the  way, 
when  will  your  friend  Bessie  Fairchild's  holi- 
days begin?" 

"  O  madam,  do  read  the  letter."  A  burst  of 
tears  accompanied  the  words. 


Rosemary.  167 

With  more  curiosity  than  any  other  feeling, 
Lady  Davenant  began  to  read. 

"  It  is  no  doubt,"  she  thought,  "  a  petition  for 
assistance.  Sir  Mark  said  she  was  destitute. 
Most  gladly  will  I  give  it,  for  I  have  often  felt 
troubled  at  the  fate  of  those  poor  people." 

In  no  ill-disposed  mood  she  perused  Mrs. 
Yates's  appeal. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   mother's   appeal. 

Mrs.  Yates's  letter  to  Lady  Davenant  was  as 
follows : 

"Madam  and  honored  Cousin, — My  name  and  parentage 
are  not  unknown  to  you,  for  the  husband  whom  it  hath  pleased 
the  Almighty  some  years  back  to  take  from  me  was  Mr.  George 
Yates,  a  nephew  of  the  late  Mr.  Mordaunt.  He  hath  often  spoken 
to  me  in  our  happy  by-gone  days  of  your  kind  behavior  toward 
him  when  he  had  the  honor  of  meeting  you  at  his  uncle's  house. 
Your  ladyship  is  no  doubt  aware  of  the  motives  which  induced 
Mr.  Mordaunt  to  banish  from  his  presence  one  whom  he  had  once 
fondly  regarded,  and  who  had  committed  no  fault  in  his  eyes 
except  that  which  he  could  not  omit  without  imperilling  his  soul. 
His  subsequent  marriage  to  one  of  the  same  faith  as  himself 
enhanced  and  confirmed  this  displeasure,  and  no  reconciliation 
between  them  was  ever  effected.  Whilst  lamenting  this  estrange- 
ment, my  husband  often  rejoiced  that  his  uncle,  for  whom  he 
entertained  the  most  affectionate  sentiments,  though  conscientious 
differences  had  parted  them  from  each  other,  enjoyed  the  society 
and  the  filial  care  of  so  good  a  kinswoman  as  your  ladyship. 

"  My  own  history  has  been  marked  by  a  number  of  successive 
troubles,  beginning  with  my  husband's  declining  health,  suddenly 
aggravated  by  a  hasty  flight  beyond  seas  on  the  night  of  the  Fire 
of  London,  and  his  death  two  years  afterwards  in  an  obscure  vil- 
lage of  France.  But,  madam,  that  hasty  flight,  caused  by  the 
dangers  which  accrued  to  recusants  in  consequence  of  the  suspi- 
cion which  fell  at  that  time  on  Catholics,  of  having  been  concerned 


Rosemary.  1 69 

in  a  plot  to  bring  about  that  great  public  calamity,  was  the  cause 
of  another  heavy  grief  to  me.  I  was  forced  to  leave  in  London 
our  little  daughter,  then  only  three  weeks  old.  One  Mrs.  Gog- 
gle, well  known  to  your  ladyship,  received  her  from  me  on  that 
memorable  night,  and  Joan  Porter,  her  servant  and  a  humble 
friend  of  my  family,  promised  me  to  be  a  good  friend  to  my  poor 
child,  and  that  promise  has  been  well  kept.  But,  madam,  here 
is  the  strange  part  of  the  story.  On  the  same  night,  after  I  had 
left  the  house,  it  was  permitted  by  Divine  Providence  that  another 
infant,  rather  by  accident  than  through  design,  was  left  on  their 
hands ;  and  subsequently  a  hspute  arose  between  Mrs.  Goggle 
and  her  servant  as  to  which  of  the  two  children  was  mine,  the 
other  having  been  thrown  out  of  a  window  of  a  house  which  is 
supposed  to  have  been  Davenant  House. 

"  When,  after  my  husband's  death,  I  returned  to  London,  at  first 
I  could  not  discover  whither  the  good  woman  who  had  charge 
of  my  child  had  removed ;  but  meeting  by  accident  in  the 
streets  Joan  Porter,  she  gave  me  their  address,  and  in  a  somewhat 
urgent  manner  pressed  me  to  lose  no  time  in  claiming  my  little 
girl.  I  was  in  as  great  a  hurry  to  do  so  as  she  could  be,  and  said 
I  should  go  to  the  house  that  day  as  soon  as  I  had  discharged  a 
trust  that  had  been  committed  to  me  by  one  to  whom  I  had  great 
obligations.  In  the  performance  of  this  sacred  duty  I  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  pursuivants,  and  was  thrown  into  prison,  where  I 
remained  ten  long  years,  during  the  first  three  of  which  I  had  no 
means  of  informing  Joan  Porter  where  I  was.  At  last  a  message 
reached  her,  and  from  time  to  time  she  sent  me  tidings  of  my 
daughter.  Then  I  learnt  that,  against  her  will  and  constant  prot- 
estation, Mrs.  Goggle  had  given  your  ladyship  to  understand  that 
my  little  Mary  was  the  child  which  had  been  saved  from  the  fire  at 
Davenant  House,  and  brought  to  her  house  by  a  poor  neighbor,  and 
never  told  you  that,  on  the  same  night,  I  left  my  child  with  her, 
or  giving  you  an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  Joan,  who  would 
have  told  you  that  the  infant  whose  parents  were  unknown  had 
died  on  her  knees  at  the  age  of  about  two  years,  after  having  been 
conditionally  baptized.     I  accuse  not  Mrs.  Goggle's  motives,  or 


170  Rosemary. 

question  her  belief  in  what  she  asserted;  yet  I  doubt  if  she  would 
take  her  oath  of  it,  as  Joan  Porter,  who  is  now  near  unto  death, 
will  readily  do,  that  the  young  girl  you  look  upon  as  your  own 
daughter,  and  have  taken  into  your  house  as  Rose  Davenant,  is 
no  other  than  my  own  child,  Mary  Yates. 

"This,  madam,  is  the  plain  unvarnished  statement  which  I  place 
before  you;  weigh  it  carefully  before  God,  and  may  He  guide  you 
to  a  right  conclusion  !  You  have  played  a  generous  mother's  part 
toward  this  child.  You  have  been  at  the  pains  and  expense  of 
her  maintenance  and  education ;  and,  without  requiring  more  abso- 
lute proofs  than  such  as  satisfied  your  heart,  you  have  taken  her 
to  your  bosom.  For  my  part,  I  have  none  to  offer  which  the  law 
would  admit  of,  even  if  an  all  but  outlawed  and  very  poor  creature 
could  gain  a  hearing.  It  is  one  woman's  word  against  another ; 
it  is  one  fond  and  yearning  mother's  heart  pleading  against  another 
as  fond  and  yearning  perhaps  as  her  own.  In  the  world's  estima- 
tion I  should  be  acting  a  kind  part  toward  her  whom  you  call 
Rose,  and  who  is  my  Mary,  if  I  was  to  leave  her  in  your  lady- 
ship's hands  without  a  struggle  to  regain  her,  and  withdraw  my- 
self to  some  shelter,  so  as  to  be  never  heard  of  again.  But  neither 
toward  God,  nor  toward  you,  nor  toward  her,  should  I  thus 
discharge  my  duty.  This  is  not  the  only  world  we  have  to  think 
of.  Life  is  short  and  eternity  long.  We  have  each  but  one  soul, 
and  what  can  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his  soul  ?  What  will  it 
avail  us  to  have  gained  the  whole  world  should  we  lose  it,  and- 
fail  in  that  for  which  we  were  created  ? 

"Believing,  as  I  do  most  firmly,  that  this  young  girl  is  my 
daughter,  I  have  no  choice  left  but  on  my  knees.  Lady  Davenant, 
to  beseech  you  to  restore  her  to  me.  She  is  willing  to  share  my 
poverty,  and  I  have  that  to  share  with  her  which  is  beyond  all 
earthly  treasures.  Do  you  think  that  one  situated  as  I  am  would 
try  to  take  your  child  from  you,  if  she  was  not  convinced  that  it 
is  her  own  that  she  asks  for  ?  O,  dear  honored  lady,  look  at  the 
picture  which,  when  you  have  perused  this,  will  be  placed  in  your 
hands.  It  was  an  exact  likeness  of  me  before  age  and  sorrow  had 
changed  my  appearance.     See  if  it  does  not  bear  a  striking  con- 


Rosemary.  171 

formity  to  her  who  is  Rose  to  you  and  Mary  to  me.  Come,  then, 
and  hear  from  Joan  Porter's  dying  lips  her  solemn  asseveration 
of  what  I  assert.  Mrs.  Goggle  will  not,  I  think,  venture  on  her 
oath  to  deny  it,  and  then  you  will  decide.  Believe  me,  with  a 
very  full  heart  and  tender  feelings  toward  one  who  has  loved 
and  befriended  that  child  whom  I  believe  to  be  my  own, 

"Your  ladyship's  humble  and  obedient  servant, 
•'  Mary  Yates." 

Lady  Davenant's  color  had  risen  whilst  she 
read  this  letter,  \7hen  she  had  finished  it,  she 
said  in  a  cold  manner : 

"  Do  you  yourself  think  that  you  are  this 
person's  daughter,  and  not  mine  ?  " 

"  I  do,  madam ;  because  Joan  Porter,  from 
the  earliest  time  I  can  remember,  told  me  I  was 
Mrs.  Yates's  child." 

Lady  Davenant  started. 

"  Indeed  ;  and  why  was  I  not  told  so?  " 

"  Mrs.  Goggle  said  the  contrary ;  and  when 
you  came  to  fetch  me,  and  no  doubt  was 
expressed  by  yourself  or  Mrs.  Dimple  that  I 
was  your  daughter,  I  had  not  courage  to  speak. 
I  did  not  know  if  it  would  be  right  to  do  so." 

"  Where  is  the  picture  this  letter  speaks 
of?" 

After  looking  at  it  fixedly,  and  then  at  the 


172  Rosemary. 

downcast  face  before  her,  Lady  Davenant's 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  It  is  a  horrid  disappointment,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  And  it's  so  hard  upon  you,"  she 
added  ;  "  such  a  change  in  your  prospects." 

"  It  would  be  very  hard  indeed,  if  I  was  not 
allowed  to  love  you  still,"  Mary  Yates  said, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

There  was  more  tenderness  in  the  embrace 
that  followed  this  speech  than  in  any  caress 
hitherto  exchanged  between  her  and  Lady 
Davenant. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  uneasily  for 
both  of  them.  They  did  not  speak  farther  of 
the  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  their  minds, 
and  to  speak  of  anything  else  seemed  impos- 
sible. 

Lady  Davenant  never  closed  her  eyes  during 
the  night,  and  went  through  a  variety  of 
emotions  and  phases  of  feeling.  At  first  she 
felt  discomposed,  even  angry,  and  inclined  to 
treat  Mrs.  Yates's  statement  with  contempt, 
and  said  to  herself  that  Joan  Porter,  whoever 
she  was,  might  be  a  half-witted  simpleton.     But 


Rosemary.  i  "j-^ 

still  she  could  not  but  see  that  Mrs.  Yates's 
letter  was  not  that  of  an  impostor  or  a  fool,  and 
the  likeness  between  her  portrait  and  Rose  was 
too  remarkable  to  be  overlooked.  It  had  indeed 
always  struck  her  that  there  was  not  the 
slightest  resemblance  between  her  and  any  one 
of  her  own  family  ;  and  when  she  came  to  think 
of  it,  she  was  not  only  very  much  like  Mrs. 
Yates's  picture,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
expression  of  her  countenance  which  strongly 
reminded  her  of  George  Yates.  The  more  she 
dwelt  on  the  coincidences  the  case  presented, 
the  less  could  she  doubt  as  to  the  facts  they 
pointed  to.  The  first  effect  of  this  dawning 
conviction  was  to  irritate  her  usually  smooth 
temper.  All  sorts  of  unamiable  and  angry 
feelings  rose  in  her  mind. 

"  Very  well,  be  it  so.  I  have  been  cruelly 
deceived,  and  I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  any  of  them.  If  this  ungrateful  girl  prefers  to 
be  the  daughter  of  an  obscure  recusant,  to  the 
position  that  was  destined  for  her,  she  may 
please  herself;  I  shall  not  stand  in  the  way." 

In  this  mood  she  tried  to  compose  herself  to 


1 74  Rosemary. 

sleep,  but  in  vain.  From  under  her  pillow  she 
took  Mrs.  Yates's  letter,  and  by  the  aid  of  the 
rush-light  again  read  it  through.  There  were 
words  in  it  that  seemed  written  in  fiery  char- 
acters :  "  What  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange 
for  his  soul  ?  Life  and  eternity,  heaven  and 
hell."  Those  were  thoughts  which  she  had  put 
away  from  her,  which  she  had  never  suffered 
her  mind  to  dwell  on  since  the  days  when  she 
had  learnt  the  catechism  at  her  mother's  knee. 
Had  that  mother  prayed  in  heaven,  and  obtained 
that  an  angel  messenger  should  be  sent  that 
night  to  her  child?  Like  so  many  in  those 
days.  Lady  Davenant  had  been  baptized  a  Cath- 
olic, and  brought  up  one  till  her  mother  died. 
Afterwards  she  had  conformed  to  the  times ; 
never  occupied  herself  much  with  religion ; 
hardened  her  heart  against  occasional  flashes 
of  remorse  or  desire  for  better  things,  and  so 
lived  on  in  careless  unconcern.  But  that  night 
a  sudden  change — one  of  those  sudden  revolu- 
tions which  sometimes  come  over  a  soul,  up- 
heaving the  memories  of  the  past,  and  throwing 
a  strange  light  on  the  future — took  place  within 


Rosemary.  175 

her.  It  so  happened  that  Sir  Mark  Le  Grange, 
a  good  man  in  his  way,  had  spoken  to  her  the 
day  before  of  that  very  Mary  Yates,  in  a  way 
which  he  little  dreamed  would  make  upon  her 
the  impression  which  it  did.  He  happened  to 
be  the  person  who,  through  some  friends,  Joan 
Porter  had  contrived  to  interest  in  behalf  of  the 
neglected  and  forgotten  prisoner.  It  was  to 
his  efforts  that  her  release  had  been  owing. 
He  was  pleased  with  his  achievement,  and  liked 
to  talk  of  it.  "  These  poor  Papists,"  he  had  said 
to  Lady  Davenant,  "  are  strange  people.  As  a 
magistrate  I  had  frequent  access  to  that  Mrs. 
Yates,  previous  to  her  release.  Upon  my  word, 
madam,  she  surprised  me.  One  would  have 
thought  she  was  in  possession  of  some  great 
secret  happiness,  her  countenance  was  so  serene 
and  contented.  Catholics  have,  I  take  it,  strange 
ideas  with  regard  to  sufferings,  which  help  to 
confirm  them  in  their  recusancy.  This  lady 
told  me  that  if  she  had  not  a  child,  and  therefore 
a  duty  to  perform  in  the  world,  she  should  have 
asked  no  better  than  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
her  life  in  gaol ;  and  I  believe  she  was  speaking 


1 76  Rosemary. 

the  truth.     I  never  met  with  a  woman  of  a  more 
forcible  and  at  the  same  time  sweet  a  spirit.  ' 

These  words,  which  did  not  make  much  im- 
pression on  Lady  Davenant  at  the  time,  returned 
to  her  recollection  during  the  sleepless  hours 
of  the  long  night.  They  confirmed  her  belief  in 
Mrs.  Yates's  statement,  and  awakened  thoughts 
of  what  her  own  life  had  been  during  all  the 
years  that  patient  captive  had  spent  in  prison. 
The  more  she  dwelt  on  this  contrast,  the  more 
deeply  it  affected  her.  Grace  was  at  work  in  a 
heart  long  closed  to  its  influence.  Under  the 
gilded  canopy  of  a  bed  which  was  wetted  with 
her  tears,  a  new  life  was  beginning  for  Lady 
Davenant.  Faint  as  the  first  morning  light 
after  a  dark  night,  that  gleam  of  faith  shone 
on  her  soul.  If  the  pale  watcher  by  Joan  Por- 
ter's sick  couch  could  have  seen  her  trying  to 
pray,  she  would  have  felt  repaid  for  all  she  had 
suffered.  Could  she  have  seen  the  progress 
and  end  of  what  was  begun  that  night,  how 
deep  would  have  been  her  joy  ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ROSEMARY. 

Early  in  the  morning  a  loud  knock  was  heard 
at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Goggle's  house,  and  when 
it  was  opened  a  person  stepped  in,  whom  she 
admitted  without  any  remark  or  question.  He 
knew  his  way  upstairs,  and  went  at  once  into 
the  room  where  Joan  was  lying.  Mrs.  Yates 
had  arranged  a  little  altar,  and  prepared,  as 
well  as  under  the  circumstances  was  possible, 
for  the  reception  of  Him  who  was  coming  to 
visit  and  bless  His  aged  servant.  Joan  had 
made  an  effort  to  sit  up  in  her  bed,  and  a  gleam 
of  joy  lighted  up  her  features  when  the  priest 
came  in.  She  lifted  up  her  feeble  hand  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  After  depositing 
the  Blessed  Sacrament  on  the  little  altar,  he 
bent  over  the  dying  woman  lo  hear  her 
whispered  confession.  It  was  a  short  one,  for 
he  had  seen  her  two  days  before.     After  giving 


178  Rosemary. 

her  absolution,  he  was  adding  a  few  fervent 
words  of  consolation,  when  the  door  of  the 
room  was  gently  opened,  and  two  persons  with 
their  faces  veiled  came  in,  and  knelt  behind  the 
curtain  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Mrs.  Yates  gave 
an  anxious  glance  at  the  priest,  and  then  at  Joan, 
who  was  absorbed  in  prayer,  and  had  not 
noticed  the  entrance  of  these  strangers.  He 
stood  still  an  instant,  as  if  hesitating  how  to 
act ;  then  crossing  the  room,  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  to  the  two  kneeling  persons, 
"  Are  you  both  Catholics  ?  " 
One  of  those  he  thus  addressed  lifted  up  her 
veil,  and  looking  at  him  with  streaming  eyes, 
answered, 

"  O  Father  Levison,  I  am  one,  though  un- 
worthy of  the  name.  It  was  you  who  instructed 
me  for  my  first  communion ;  and  this  child, 
whether  she  is  mine  or  no,  is  a  child  of  the 
Church :  suffer  us,  I  beseech  you,  to  remain 
here." 

The  priest  bowed  his  head  in  token  of  assent ; 
and  after  kneeling  an  instant  before  the  Blessed 
Sacrament,  he  carried  it  to  Joan.     She  received 


Rosemary.  1 79 

her  Lord  as  those  receive  Him  who  through 
Hfe  have  always  looked  forward  to  death  as  the 
messenger  of  God's  love.  Her  homely  features 
were  lighted  up  with  an  expression  of  strange 
beauty,  a  look  of  unutterable  joy  beamed  in 
her  d3'ing  e)^es,  a  smile  hovered  on  her  lips, 
and  for  a  while  she  remained  silent  and  motion- 
less in  communion  with  her  God.  Not  a  sound 
disturbed  the  stillness  of  the  chamber,  where 
at  that  moment  many  ardent  prayers  were 
addressed  to  Him  whose  nearness  was  felt  by 
all  present.  Joan  herself  w^as  the  first  to  speak. 
She  called  the  priest,  and  said, 

"  I  am  very  happy.  Father,  but  very,  very 
weak.  Do  you  think  that  lady  will  come?  I 
was  praying  just  now  not  to  die  before  I  could 
speak  to  her." 

"  If  you  mean  Lady  Davenant,  I  think  she  is 
here,"  he  answered.  "  It  will  be  well  that  you 
should  bear  witness  before  her  and  Mrs.  Yates 
to  the  fact  that  so  nearly  concerns  them.  They 
have  both  been  present  during  your  communion. 
1  will  call  them  to  your  side." 

A  moment  afterwards  the  two  mothers  whose 


1 80  Rosemary. 

histories  had  been  so  strangely  connected,  and 
the  young  girl  whom  each  had  looked  upon 
as  her  child,  stood  by  Joan  Porter's  side.  Mrs. 
Coggle  placed  herself  behind  them,  in  a  state 
of  painful  bewilderment.  She  was  broken- 
hearted at  Joan's  condition  ;  remorseful  at  her 
long  neglect  of  her  faith,  which  the  solemn  act 
she  had  just  witnessed  had  revived  in  her  heart; 
distressed  at  a  few  words  that  Lady  Davenant 
had  said  to  her  before  she  had  entered  the  sick 
chamber,  implying  that  she  had  been  deceived  ; 
to  which  was  superadded  a  vague  sense  that 
her  conduct  in  all  that  business  had  not  been 
irreproachable,  and  that  Joan  might,  after  all, 
have  been  the  best  informed  on  the  subject. 

It  was  with  intense  emotion  that  the  wit- 
nesses of  that  scene,  in  which  they  were  all  so 
deeply  interested,  saw  Father  Levison  place  in 
Joan's  hands  the  crucifix,  which  she  devoutly 
kissed,  and  then  breathlessly  listened  to  the 
words  she  uttered  in  a  feeble  but  distinct  voice, 

"  As  I  hope  to  be  saved,  and  as  I  am  about 
for  to  appear  before  my  God,  I  do  say,  and  am 
sure  of  it,  that  this  child  on  whom    I   lay  my 


Rosemary.  1 8 1 

hand  is  the  one  Mrs.  Yates  left  in  my  arms  on 
the  night  of  the  Fire  of  London,  and  I  pray 
God  she  may  be  restored  to  her," 

After  a  brief  and  solemn  pause,  which  fol- 
lowed this  declaration,  Lady  Davenant  came 
forward,  and,  taking  Joan's  hand  she  said, 
"  After  reading  Mrs.  Yates's  statement,  I  was 
wellnigh  convinced  of  what  you  have  now 
affirmed.  Since  I  have  seen  her  in  this  room, 
by  the  side  of — licr  daughter,  for  such  I  must 
now  call  her — no  doubt  can  remain.  Mrs.  Gog- 
gle's embarrassed  replies  to  ni}-  questions  and 
your  testimony  were  scarce  needed  to  assure 
me  of  the  truth." 

Joan  feebly  pressed  the  hand  that  held  hers, 
and  sighed  as  if  a  heavy  load  was  removed 
from  her  heart.  There  was  another  pause, 
during  which  Mrs.  Yates  passed  her  arm  around 
her  daughter's  waist,  and  drew  her  close  to 
herself,  and  INIrs.  Goggle  left  the  room,  puzzled 
as  to  her  own  position  at  that  moment,  and 
ready  to  accuse  or  defend  herself  as  would 
please  every  one  most.  Lady  Davenant  was 
still  holding  Joan's  hand,  and  seemed  iniwillini^ 


1 82  Rosemary. 

to  move.  Bending  over  her,  she  whispered  in 
a  trembling  voice,  "  The  other  child — my  child, 
Joan !     She  died,  then  ?  " 

•'  Yes,  my  lady,  her  little  soul  went  to 
heaven  white  from  its  baptism,  and  here,  under 
my  pillow — get  out  that  little  parcel,  Polly,  and 
give  it  to  the  lady." 

With  trembling  hands.  Lady  Davenant  opened 
the  parcel,  a  mass  of  delicate  silken  and  very 
fair  hair  met  her  sight. 

The  mother's  heart  was  wakened  then.  She 
pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  to  her  bosom,  and  be- 
dewed it  with  her  tears.  It  was  what  she  could 
well  imagine  her  child's  hair  to  have  been. 

"  God  bless  you  !  "  she  said  to  Joan.  "  Pray 
for  me."  And  then  whispered  to  the  priest  as 
she  left  the  room,  "  I  would  fain  be  reconciled, 
Father.  Take  me  where  I  can  confess,  and  at 
your  feet  promise  to  lead  henceforward  a  Cath- 
olic life." 

She  kept  her  word.  Sudden  had  been  the 
work  of  conversion  in  her  soul,  but  it  proved  a 
lasting  one — one  of  those  rare  miracles  of  grace 
which  occur  now  and  then  to  teach  us  never  to 


Rosemary.  1 83 

doubt  the  power  of  prayer.  She  had  been  hard 
and  cold  and  worldly  for  many  years,  no  refresh- 
ing dew  had  moistened  her  soul ;  no  light  from 
heaven  had  shone  on  her  path.  Many  there  are 
who  feed  on  husks,  because  they  have  missed 
the  road  to  their  Father's  house.  She,  that 
apparently  heartless  woman,  had  found  the 
way  to  it  that  day,  and  with  it  the  lost  treas- 
ures of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  She  forgave 
the  poor  woman  who  had  scarcely  consciously 
deceived  her,  and  provided  for  her  old  age. 
Sweetly  and  urgently  she  invited  Mrs.  Yates  to 
her  house,  pleading  for  a  share  in  her  child's 
affection.  Mrs.  Yates  accepted  the  offer  for  a 
a  time.  Father  Levison  having  urged  it  upon 
her  as  the  greatest  benefit  that  could  be  con- 
ferred on  the  new  convert.  It  was  with  a  full 
heart  and  streaming  eyes  that  she  placed  her 
daughter's  hand  in  Lady  Davenant's  and  said, 

"  You  have  a  claim  on  her  equal  to  mine, 
sweet  lady.  She  shall  no  more  be  called  Rose 
or  Mary,  but  Rose-Mar}- ;  and  may  she  repay 
you,  if  only  one  half  of  the  goodness  you  have 
shown  her !  " 


1 84  Rosemary. 

Davenant  House  soon  possessed  a  little  secret 
chapel,  which  became  a  frequent  resort  for 
Catholics.  Many  Masses  were  said  in  it  for  the 
repose  of  the  soul  of  Joan  Porter,  who  breathed 
her  last  a  few  hours  after  that  communion 
which  had  been  the  means  of  Lady  Davenant's 
conversion.  Rosemary  wept  bitterly  for  her 
old  friend.  Not  all  the  love  of  her  two  mothers 
consoled  her  for  a  time  for  the  loss  of  one  who 
had  truly  been  a  parent  to  her.  After  her 
death,  the  virtues  of  this  humble  servant  of 
God  became  yet  more  apparent  than  in  life, 
and  some  affirmed  that  she  died  in  the  odor  of 
sanctity.  Lady  Davenant  placed  a  memorial 
of  her  in  the  same  place  where,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Crucifix,  was  enshrined  the  fair  hair  of  the 
child  who  had  died  on  her  knees.  In  this 
hidden  sanctuary  Mrs.  Yates  poured  forth 
many  prayers  that  the  time  might  come  when, 
withdrawing-  herself  entirely  from  the  world, 
she  might  resume  that  lite  of  silent  contempla- 
tion and  prayer  which  she  had  learnt  to  prize 
during  her  long  imprisonment. 

One  day,  toward  the  close  of  the  year.  Lady 


Rosemary.  185 

Davenant  received  a  letter  which,  after  she 
had  read  it,  she  gave  with  a  smile  to  Mrs. 
Yates. 

"  Dear  friend,"  she  said,  "  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence are  passing  strange  !  What  would  have 
aaturall}"  wrecked  many  a  hope  of  the  sort  will 
prove,  I  think,  a  stepping-stone  to  a  happy 
issue."  This  enigmatical  speech  was  explained 
by  the  letter  which  follows  : 

"  Honored  and  dear  Madam, — You  are  well  aware  how 
strongly  my  desires  were  set  on  the  union  which  had  been  treated 
of  between  us,  and  how  greatly  confirmed  they  were,  which  were 
so  strong  already,  by  the  sight  of  your  amiable  and  accomplished 
daughter,  who  unites  in  herself  all  that  birth,  parentage,  and  per- 
sonal merit  of  person  and  of  mind  can  be  desired  or  imagined.  I 
may  add,  that  my  son  was  likewise  so  impressed  with  admiration 
and  a  very  tender  sentiment  of  esteem  for  the  young  lady,  with 
whom  he  had  the  happiness  of  conversing  at  some  length  on  the 
day  when  we  were  kindly  entertained  in  your  house,  that  he 
would  have  thought  himself  the  happiest  of  men  to  have  obtained 
her  hand  and  merited  your  approbation.  But  in  this  world  the 
best  feelings  of  our  nature,  and  even  the  generosity  of  youthful 
ardor  in  what  touches  conscience,  sometimes  militates  against  the 
best-contrived  schemes  and  blights  the  fairest  hopes. 

"Madam,  it  is  with  the  deepest  regret  I  find  that,  whereas  I 
have  always  judged  it  to  be  my  duty  to  conform  to  the  religion 
by  law  established  in  this  kingdom,  as  sufficient  for  any  Christian 
man,  and  the  most  convenient  for  a  dutiful  subject  of  this  realm 
— in  which  sentiments  I  know  you  concur  with  me — my  son,  now 
that  he  has  come  of  age,  refuses  to  do  so,  and — with  a  fanatical 


1 86  Rosefnary. 

attachment  to  the  worship  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  wherein  he 
was  educated  by  a  mother,  of  which  her  religion  was  the  only 
defect — persists  in  his  recusancy,  and  writes  to  me  from  abroad, 
that  although  he  never  met  with  any  one  he  admired  or  could 
love  so  well  as  Miss  Davenant,  he  will  neither  conceal  his  senti- 
ments nor  marry  one  who  is  not  Catholic.  I  have  by  letter  rea- 
soned with  him,  but  in  vain.  He  alleges  the  interests  of  his  con- 
science and  the  importance  of  his  soul  in  comparison  with  the 
Vorld's  fortune,  and  by  many  virtuous  reasons  seeks  to  justify 
an  undutiful  resolve.  At  the  same  time,  he  is  so  good  and  ten- 
der a  son,  and  owes  so  much  to  a  mother  whose  memory  I  like- 
wise worship,  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  speak  harshly  of  his  con- 
duct ;  and  if  he  chooses  to  lead  a  private  life,  and  marry  one  of 
his  own  religion,  I  cannot  quarrel  with  him,  though  my  paternal 
affection  grieves  at  his  resolution.  Your  daughter  will  find  many 
suitors  more  noble,  more  wealthy,  than  my  poor  son,  but  none 
who,  but  for  this  untoward  circumstance,  would  have  devoted  his 
life  more  faithfully  to  her  service  and  happiness. 

"  I  remain,  dear  and  honored  madam,  your  faithful,  humble, 
and  obedient  servant, 

"  Mark  Le  Grange,  Bart." 

"  Dear  cousin,"  Lady  Davenant  said,  when 
Mrs.  Yates  returned  to  her  this  letter,  "  Mary 
Yates  will  have  the  same  portion  that  was  prom- 
ised with  Rose  Davenant.  So  I  think  this 
good  gentleman  will  be  satisfied  to  receive  our 
little  recusant  as  his  daughter-in-law ;  and  if 
)^ou  Had  seen  the  sudden  admiration  his  son 
conceived  for  Rose-Mar}^,  and  her  good  opinion 
of  him  in  return,  j^ou  would  anticipate,  as  I  do, 


Rosemary.  187 

that  when  these  young  people  become  acquaint- 
ed with  their  reciprocal  sentiments  regarding 
their  souls'  welfare  and  God's  Hoi}'  Church, 
they  will  be  overjoyed  and  ready  to  fulfil  the 
contract  passed  betwixt  Sir  Mark  and  myself. 
Ah,  dear  friend,  if  this  marriage  takes  place, 
you  and  I  will  seek  together  other  nuptials,  and 
end  our  lives  in  a  different  manner  from  what 
we  should  have  forecasted  on  the  night  of  the 
Fire  of  London!  " 

Six  months  afterwards  Mary  Yates  was  united 
to  the  son  and  heir  of  Sir  Mark  Le  Grange, 
and  her  two  mothers  entered  the  convent  of 
Poor  Clares  at  Gravelines — Mrs.  Yates  with 
the  sober  and  deep  devotion  of  a  long-tried 
and  delayed  vocation.  Lady  Davenant  with 
the  ardent  fervor  of  one  who  loved  much, 
because  she  had  to  make  up  to  the  Heart  of 
our  Divine  Lord  for  years  of  cold  neglect  and 
sinful  estrangement.  They  ran  henceforward 
a  close  and  devout  race  in  the  narrow  path 
of  Christian  perfection.  The}'  were  lovely  in 
their  lives,  and  in  their  deaths  they  were  not 
divided. 


I 


7 
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